Judgment Reckoning
by kidders
Summary: Movie-verse AU, Frodo and Sam are captured by Faramir and taken to Henneth Annun and Osgiliath
1. Default Chapter

JUDGMENT RECKONING  
  
Author: Kidders  
  
Fandom: Lord Of The Rings: The Two Towers  
  
Spoilers: AU for TTT, spoilers for that movie  
  
Characters: Frodo, Sam, Captain Faramir and his men, Gollum  
  
Pairings: None, no slash  
  
Genre: Angst, drama, h/c  
  
Disclaimers: Everything belongs to New Line Cinema, Peter Jackson and his fellow scriptwriters, and the Tolkien universe. Just borrowing for a bit of fun.  
  
Setting: AU, takes up in the movie right after Sam stews the coneys and they see the oliphaunts. Timeline is AU, but I attempt to follow the movie, with Faramir taking the hobbits to Henneth Annun, and then to Osgiliath. Though the journey may take longer.  
  
A/N: I'm new here, have only written one other story for LOTR, which did not get many reviews on ff.net (Ariel, thank you, thank you. This is movie canon, with a smidge of book thrown in). So I am posting here, as well as ff.net, to see if my writing's the problem, or just my lack of familiarity about the subject. Alas, if it is my prose, my style has been with me awhile, and is probably not going to change. Though constructive comments are always welcome. Only recently saw FOTR, this past October. Hadn't read the books back then, either. Also, I'd already started this fic when I read the first chapter of someone else's story sort of chronicling a similar storyline (Claudia, loved it, anything you write is good, though I only cater to the non-slashy stuff). Hope mine is different enough to be enjoyable. Personally, the tension on screen between Frodo and Sam and Faramir fascinates me. I was initially disappointed that PJ changed it so much from the book, but after hearing an interview where he explained his reasoning, I was more open to the idea, only bothered by the fact more screen time wasn't given to this wonderful arc. I know some people are strongly against how Faramir was scripted in the movie, so don't read if you'll be offended. I don't think my version is quite as harsh.  
  
Warning: Spoilers ahead for The Two Towers  
  
Chapter One POV: Sam  
  
"We've lingered here too long," Frodo mutters as he gets up and backs away from our secluded little hiding place. He turns, and I listen to his steps rustling through the dry grass, noticing they're not quite as weary and dragging as they were before. A good thing he finally was able to catch some sleep. He does seem anxious to leave, but I say we've stayed safe and undetected so far, maybe it's just the Ring making him jittery.  
  
To further complicate things, Gollum's sneaked off, that odious stinker. At the first sign of trouble, too. I should have guessed he'd be the first to run, though I don't mind his parting in the least. Good riddance, I say. The way things are now, I'm reluctant to leave, as we've found fresh food and water, and Frodo tires out so quickly, it would be nice if we could rest here for a day or so. 'Twas peaceful before those men showed up. I cast one last look to where the Oliphaunts disappeared, finally sigh and climb to my feet. I hear Frodo's urgent entreaty, "Come on, Sam!" And have only time to turn around, when I hear him gasp loudly, the sounds of a scuffle filling the air.  
  
"Frodo!" I race out of the brush into a small clearing, where I see a man has Frodo grabbed at the wrist, and my master's struggling mightily to free himself. But this ruffian's twice his size, twice his strength as well. 'Tis a hopeless battle. Springing forward, I have my hand on my sword, the blade clearing the scabbard while I yell, "Hey, you, leave 'im be!"  
  
The man who's got my master yanks him off his feet and tosses him to the ground, like he was some Orc to be stomped on. In the midst of Frodo being pulled this way and that, he suddenly screams, and it ain't a cry of rage or anger, neither. It's a gut-wrenching cry of pure pain, and I feel my stomach lurch sickeningly when I hear it. His body makes a sort of hollow thud when he hits the rocky path flat on his back, and it's then my arms are wrenched behind me, forcing me to drop my sword.  
  
I can think of nothing but getting to my master's side, and shout at the big brute holding me, "You let me go, ya damn miserable skunk! Can't ya see 'e's 'urt?"  
  
A hooded man approaches, his face hidden under a cowl of forest green. Clearly, he's in charge, and I have no trouble hearing the gruff order he barks out: "Bind their hands."  
  
Men are all around us now, there's no way past them I can see. Frodo's still lying on the ground where he fell, he hasn't moved much, but I can tell he's awake and hurting by the way he's clenched one fist and is holding it firm to his chest. "Let me go to 'im," I beg, twisting so hands can't grasp so good. I'll not give them an easy time of it. "'E's been hurt, surely you should grant 'im mercy for that!"  
  
I get a glimpse of cold, blue eyes beneath that forest-green cloak, and the man must make some gesture, because I'm suddenly released. "Be quick," the gruff voice commands me, "we cannot afford to remain here more than a few minutes."  
  
I scowl, feeling an intense urge to give this scoundrel a good, swift kick in the bollocks. Instead, I bite the inside of my cheek and rush to where my master's lain out, falling to my knees in the dirt beside him. I snag his flailing hand and squeeze it gently, taking in the sight of how tightly his eyes are shut, how his whole body's tensed in a rigid struggle of fighting the pain. His ribs shudder harder than they're meant to every time he draws breath, and his fingers clutch at mine with desperate strength. "Mr. Frodo, tell me what's the matter! Where are ya 'urt?!"  
  
Those expressive blue eyes of his flutter open, only now they're dulled by a heavy shimmer of tears that cling to his lashes as he blinks. "Sam." His voice is low, riddled with a tremulous quiver that hitches his breathing into more pain-driven gasps. "Don't let them take It, please.I s- shouldn't be a-able to b-bear it."  
  
I find myself frowning, and have to put my will to making my face more bland and understanding. "Where's it 'urtin', Mr. Frodo?"  
  
A lone, big fat teardrop rolls down his cheek, and he flinches. "My.m-my shoulder.the l-left one w-where." His chest heaves violently, a hissing wail choking off what he was about to say. 'Tis with regret I know what he would tell. It had to be his shoulder, the same one where that dirty, rotten witch-king stabbed him when we was on Weathertop. Barely healed, and still paining him at times.it's not fair he should have to suffer so!  
  
Steeling myself, I slip my hand under the collar of my master's shirt, to trace along the ridge where his neck slopes down to his upper arm. My fingers brush the chain the Ring sits on, and Frodo groans, his eyes unfocused. Everything under the skin feels bunched into knots, wrong somehow. Like a water flask about to burst at its seams. Frodo's got his hand clutched across his chest, but his shoulder looks to be raised off the ground even though he's lying flat. I keep my touch light, so as not to hurt him, but he yelps anyway. He tries to turn his face away, except that must be more painful, so he grimaces and holds really still.  
  
"I'm sorry." This large hand plants itself on my back, and I want to shrug it off. I tense, preparing to do just that, but the grip tightens so fingers dig sorely into my arm. "We must depart," the hooded leader declares. "It is not safe to linger with the marauders so close to our position. We did not slay them all, I fear. One of my men shall have to carry your companion."  
  
Feeling Frodo's hand claw at me frantically, I glance up. The man's face is still mostly hidden, and he stands tall, reminding me of Strider as we first met him. But Strider was quick to offer us aid. I think this man is not so courteous. "Can't we first tend to 'is injuries?" I ask angrily. "It must be plain even to you e's 'urting somethin' awful."  
  
"No, the risk is too great," he denies firmly. "All such ministrations will have to wait."  
  
Frodo moans loudly, causing some of the men to stir uneasily. The leader kneels beside me, leaning in just a little, allowing me another glimpse of his eyes. They are every bit as cold and harsh as before, but perhaps not without pity. "I will apologize for any further pain I might cause this one, for it becomes obvious we must gag him."  
  
"What?!" I bluster indignantly. "You can't possibly mean to do such a cruel task!"  
  
The man's eyes soften, so fleeting is the look I think I must have imagined it. "It is imperative we move swiftly and silently. There is no other course. I will not bind him, nor you, if I have your word you will follow my orders without question."  
  
This time when Frodo gasps, the cry he makes is so shrill I wince along with everyone else. I hate to admit this stranger is in the right, but it seems I've no choice in the matter. "Fine, I'll see it done, only if by my 'ands," I mutter. "I reckon I'll be a mite gentler, an' I don't want 'im 'urt anymore than 'e already is."  
  
A strip of rough cloth is thrust into my fingers, a bit too readily if you ask me. I reluctantly slide my hand beneath my master's head and tie the foul thing into place, taking care it isn't so tight it will cut into his mouth. Frodo arches up against me, struggling weakly, then his eyes roll up and he falls limp within my hold. When I take my hand away, it is dark with blood. "O', bless me. Save us."  
  
"We have no time!" the man insists, pushing the hood back from his face and drawing Frodo up in his arms like my master weighed little more than a satchel. "We must depart now."  
  
Bearded and fair, with hair a sight redder than mine, he strides forward and does not to check to see if I follow. I surge after him in a hasty trot, still angered by his ill treatment, though I suppose he does have a point about remaining where we were. "I thought you said one of yer men was ta carry him," I badger crossly, trying to watch where I'm stepping, and look at him and my master all at the same time.  
  
"I would not ask anything of my men I would not do myself," he answers quickly.  
  
"I would ask then, who are ya and by what right do ya deny us passage?"  
  
"And I would reply I am Faramir, Captain of Gondor. Sworn by my father to protect the lands of Ithilien from those driven by evil intent."  
  
"We are just travelers, wearied from a long journey. There's nothin' dastardly about our quest."  
  
"No one visits these parts unless they serve the Dark Tower, or Sauraman the White. You had a third with you, a gangle creature with an ill-favored look. Where might he have gotten to?"  
  
My eyes turn to him in surprise, "Yer askin' me?" It seemed this Faramir was testing me in some way, and it wasn't sitting well with me. Not by a long shot. "Such riddlin' words make no sense to me. Mr. Frodo, he's learned in the way of books and other customs of folk. You should ask 'im. In fact, you could do to better understand those of us who want to join the fight against the Enemy, and let us go unhindered."  
  
"His name is Frodo?"  
  
"Frodo Baggins," I grumble, reaching up to brush my fingers over my master's shin. His leg is cold and slicked with dampness, a troubling sign since he's sweating without moving a muscle in effort. I draw my hand back, and sigh. "An' I'm Samwise Gamgee. We're hobbits from the Shire, if yer interested."  
  
"My men think you might be some sort of new Orc spy, sent to discern our whereabouts."  
  
"Spies?!" Ire ruffled, my lips curve in disdain. "Are yer men half- blind? We don't look nothin' like those nasty, stinkin' creatures!" I angle a glance at the host of men hovering on either side of us, their company gliding through the tress like barely-glimpsed shadows. Some blend in so well, I can't tell where their cloaks end and the forest begins.  
  
"Your purgation is in word only," argues Faramir. He looks to have a satisfied smirk on his face. "We will require substantially more proof before we release you so close to our refuge. And don't forget, your friend is wounded. Would it not be best to remain where greater numbers could protect you from harm?"  
  
"Perhaps," I agree, my scowl deepening. "Though I still don't trust yer intentions."  
  
"Are you his bodyguard?" Faramir inquires mildly.  
  
My eyes narrow, and I growl, "His gardener."  
  
Frodo chooses this moment to moan, though muffled by the cloth 'tis barely heard. Hidden in the crook of the man's arm, I can't rightly see my master's face. Gripped with worry, I snag a handful of the man's flowing cloak and tug fitfully. He slows his pace, stopping to peer down at me through assessing eyes.  
  
"He is not awake as yet. You needn't concern yourself."  
  
Meant to be reassuring, I do not find Faramir's words so uttered. "But 'e's 'urtin'."  
  
"He is unaware, so his pain makes no impression, Master Gamgee."  
  
"You don't know," I lament. "Yer just guessin'."  
  
"We will halt soon," is his promise. He hardly adjusts his stride to match my step, and I rush to keep up with him. We're heading west, as far as I can tell. The trail's an easy hike, thank goodness-evenly sloped, downhill at times. Trees carpet the sky in a thick canopy above us, shading the last of the daylight into dim pockets of fading yellow.  
  
Soon, Faramir said. I'd like to have his definition of the word. We don't break camp until full darkness is upon us, and it comes not a moment too soon. My master's been whimpering steadily through the gag for more than a short while, weak echoes of pleading anguish muffled so they emerge as throaty groans. His distress is wholly not something you'd notice from a body who's unaware. It's just when I'm about to snap and throttle this Faramir, when I can't stand hearing Frodo's cries a minute longer, the Captain suddenly calls out to his men and announces this is where we'll be hunkering down for the night.  
  
"About time," I mutter, not caring if the stinker hears me. I turn, searching for a nice, flat piece of ground where we can lie, and am taken aback when my pack is abruptly shoved into my arms. I'd done forgotten it altogether when we were captured. One of the Captain's men must have carried it for me. I shake out my bedroll, ignoring most of the men as they fan out and disappear through the trees. They're not my concern.  
  
The Captain of Gondor places Frodo on the blankets with a lot more gentleness than I would expect, and lights two torches, placing them in the hands of the guards who stayed behind. "Damrod, bring any water we can spare, and more strips of cloth, so we may treat this halfling's wounds." Faramir's voice is soft, but his tone is not one to be dallied with. "We will rest here for a few hours, but keep sharp eyes vigilant, so there is sufficient warning should we have to take our leave."  
  
I bend down and remove the gag, putting my hand across Frodo's forehead, finding it clammy and warm. With the light better, I can see Frodo's face is much too pale, skin stretched tight over his cheekbones and glistening a dewy shine from pain and sickness. At least the bleeding from his head has stopped. The wound has left its mark though-a caked lump of matted hair and stringy clots of old blood hang down over my questing fingers where I touch his nape. Ugh, I think, a sticky mess, but a mess that can assuredly wait. This isn't what's troubling him. The real pain lies buried in his shoulder.  
  
All I have to do is barely touch it, and Frodo jerks away from me with a hoarse cry, begging, "Please.d-don't touch m-me. L-leave it.leave me b-be, Sam. It h-hurts too much.just l-let me r-rest."  
  
A firm hand on my own shoulder draws me back from where Frodo has curled on his side, tense and shivering, a wretched picture of suffering. I want to ease him, except I'm not entirely sure what's wrong. I look to Faramir, who is watching me with dour warning in his expression.  
  
"The juncture where the bones of the shoulder meet the bones of the arm has been knocked or torn out of its proper position," the Captain explains in a grave whisper, though I don't think Frodo can hear us. "That is what is causing your friend such pain. His left arm does not move as it should, I felt this while I carried him."  
  
"Out of place?" I can hear Frodo breathing noisily, and have problems forming my words. "What caused this 'arm? Was it done when 'e fell?"  
  
"Perhaps." Faramir's eyes cloud, teeming with an emotion I can't decipher. "More likely, it occurred when Frodo struggled to free himself from Damrod's hold. Twisting the arm when it is braced at the wrong angle can cause such an injury, as can falling on one's arm when the limb is stretched out to lessen the impact."  
  
"How do we fix it?" I hiss, fury over what's happened flushing my cheeks hot. I swallow hard, my hands balled into fists. "What can we do?"  
  
"I can shift the bones back to the way they were meant to rest," Faramir reveals, a strange condolement creeping into his voice. "But the task will not be easy-the muscles surrounding the shoulder are in spasm, forcing the bones farther apart. It shall prove a daunting counter to any effort I make to correct the displacement. And it will be very painful for Frodo."  
  
I stare wordlessly at him, my throat contracting in a series of hard swallows. It makes me sick, the thought of what we're going to have to do to my master. After all he's suffered, this shouldn't be foisted upon him. His burden's heavy enough as it is. The one comfort I draw on is that it can't possibly be worse than what the witch-king did to him. Surely, nothing can match the horror of those awful days spent journeying to Rivendell. "Can we leave it like it is now, let the injury 'eal on its own?" I ask, though I fear I already know the answer.  
  
"No, much like a broken bone, it must be set right. If left too long, he will lose the use of his arm."  
  
Nodding, I feel the warm prickle of tears in my eyes, and blink them away angrily. I close the distance between us, throwing my head back to glare him right in the face. "This shouldn't 'ave 'appened!" I growl accusingly.  
  
Faramir is the one to first break the glance, and I am shocked to read a guilty loathing in his eyes in the second before he turns. "No," he whispers with regret, "no, it should not."  
  
To Be Continued. 


	2. Chapter Two

Judgment Reckoning  
  
Chapter Two  
  
Author: Kidders  
  
Fandom: Lord Of The Rings: The Two Towers  
  
Characters: Frodo, Sam, Captain Faramir and his men, Gollum  
  
Pairings: None, no slash  
  
Rating: PG-13 for violence and graphic medical descriptions  
  
Genre: Angst, drama, h/c  
  
Disclaimers: See Chapter One  
  
Setting: AU, movie-verse with a bit of book thrown in, Frodo and Sam are in the forced company of Faramir and his men, journeying to Henneth Annun  
  
A/N: More to follow in the next chapter. Thanks to all who reviewed, it was wonderful to hear from you all. Hope you like this next installment.  
  
Spoilers: for the movie The Two Towers  
  
Chapter Two POV: Faramir  
  
"No, Sam, I will not!"  
  
The sharply proclaimed denial is uttered in stark contrast to the whispered mutterings I have been hearing for the last several moments, voiced by the small, wounded creature I now have in my care and custody. Frodo, I correct myself, his name is Frodo, as told to me by his companion. A halfling from the Shire that fate would see fit to cross my path. A halfling in considerable pain, due in part to my fail. But since raised voices do carry for long distances, I regale Samwise with a stern look, and am rewarded by an angry glare, equal parts ferocity and blame. The feisty gardener serves his master well, though I would hazard a guess that he tends more than this Frodo's flowers and vines.  
  
I smother a sigh, and approach the bedroll, knowing the task of attending to the hobbit's injured shoulder can be put off no longer. The longer we wait, the harder it will be to set the deformed joint back to its natural position. Scrutinizing the two in silence, I see whatever prompted Frodo's outburst seems to have been resolved by the time I kneel beside the blanket. I cast my eyes on the hobbit's knackered and shivering form. Samwise has removed Frodo's tunic and waistcoat as I instructed, but the halfling's chest is not laid bare, and on second glance, I see a glittering corslet that shines like the stars in the night sky. Pale as a moonbeam, it is interwoven with many close fitting rings of shirt-mail. Mithril, if I am not mistaken. This Shireling must be well off indeed if he can afford such extravagant accoutrements. Which makes his presence here even more of a disparagement-what would drive such a hobbit to travel leagues from his home and into a land wrought with such peril? It is a question to which I mean to confront these two, once we reach the haven of Henneth Annun.  
  
Sam has managed to coax Frodo onto his back, though the effort has pinched his face into a tense mask of pain. I gently touch him on the chest, avoiding the shoulder entirely, but Frodo flinches as if I had struck him, and his eyes fly wide open. I raise my hands, palm open. "Frodo, I only wish to help you. You are safe here in my company."  
  
"Safe?" His eyes are shot with black, only a tiny blue rim remaining as testament to their true color. "Are y-you a R-ranger? L-like Strider?"  
  
He is frowning, intent upon my every move; I doubt his sight is true yet. Obviously, he does not deem me trustworthy. Nor would I, for myself, were the situation reversed. "In a manner of speaking," I answer. "My men are Dunedain of the South, once Rangers of Ithilien before it was overrun, now in service to my father. I am Faramir, Captain of Gondor."  
  
"Gondor?" Frodo breathes, his right hand creeping up to his neck, fingers splaying flat on naked skin, then clenching exigently as if searching for something. A stricken look flits across his tense features, and I think I glimpse a brief flicker of fear in his eyes.  
  
"I intend you to come to no further harm," I profess yet again, hoping to reassure the hobbit, for the more relaxed he is, the easier this trial will be for the both of us. "I am sorry the actions of my men caused you injury, no one save the servants of the Enemy has visited these lands in so long, we acted impulsively. I am answerable to the offense, and will strive to put right your grievance with as much care as I am able."  
  
Feeling the brush of the gardener's eyes, I know without looking what I will find. Sam does not speak, causing me to wonder about his sudden close-tongued demeanor. Silence, I expect, is not one of Master Gamgee's virtues. So, should I be gladdened by this change, or worried indeed?  
  
I consider Frodo, think over my plan for reducing the dislocated shoulder. I am no healer, any skill I have acquired in the way of tending wounds learned in battle. "Did Samwise explain what we must do?" is the query I issue to the small one.  
  
Pain-glazed eyes track to me sluggishly, tiny fingers curling into a white-knuckled grip over his breast. Exhaustion wars against hurt for dominance in Frodo's expression, roughening his voice into a haggard whisper. "Sam." He has to swallow, words stuttering as though he was almost too weary to waste the breath for talking. "S-sam said m-my shoulder has t-to be put b-back." He blinks, eyes enormous in an ashen, sweat-sicklied face. His right hand moves at last from its fixture, and roams to cradle the crippled joint, mouth thinning into a tight-lipped grimace as he shudders faintly. "That you have n-nothing for m-my p-pain. And that it w-will likely h-hurt very m-much."  
  
He peers at me closely, checking to see if I will retract the accounting he has just given. I shake my head slowly. "I will not lie to you, Frodo. 'Tis a draught no one would want to claim."  
  
A breath hitches in his throat, and I watch him bite back what would have emerged as a sob. His eyes roll back to gaze at his companion, and he asks forlornly, "Why do these things h-happen, Sam? I did not ask for this d-duty, I never w-wanted it. But there was n-no one e-else. He told me.he w-warned me.evil will be d-drawn to it."  
  
"Mr. Frodo, ya don't know what yer sayin'!" Samwise leans forward, pressing his hand to his master's cheek. Frodo accepts the contact, it even looks that he draws strength from it. Their voices drop low, hard for me to distinguish, and I only hear Sam's final declaration: "I just wish Mr. Strider was 'ere with some of 'is athelas."  
  
The exchange is troubling, more for what is not said, and I find myself once more contemplating what errand brings these two hobbits into my father's lands. I glance up to see Sam's eyes upon me, a nervous air lurking in their depths. I do not press him for an explanation, only inquire, "What is this athelas you mention?"  
  
A great relief ripples away the frown I have become accustom to seeing, and he sighs a bit wistfully. "'Twas an 'erb Strider-another Ranger we traveled with for the first leg of our journey-'e used it fer drawin' out poisons an' dullin' pain."  
  
"Was one of your party injured?" I ask mildly.  
  
"Aye, Frodo was-" He stops, skewering me with a contemptible mien of accusation. I speak before he can choose an insult.  
  
"Regardless, we have nothing of that nature here, I am sorry to say. Frodo must be restrained. You and Mablung shall have to keep him still while I maneuver his shoulder. As we discussed."  
  
My voice is harsh, but we cannot delay. From where I stand, I observe that Frodo's good hand is clutched around the mithril shirt so hard, the chain-mail must be digging bloody gouges into his palm. His gaze looks up, but I am uncertain what it is the halfling sees. Unfolding the piece of cloth I recovered from the ground, I offer it to Sam. He stares at my outstretched hand, horror swimming in his eyes. I soften my tone, but remain firm. "It is for him to bite on."  
  
Sam nods stiffly, snatching it from my grip and ducking his head. "You must hold Frodo's head, try to keep him from struggling. Mablung will embound his legs. Ease your master onto his right side, and we will begin."  
  
The injured hobbit doesn't utter a sound when Sam uncouples the clawed fingers and moves him, but his eyes dart to me in panic as he is rolled, and his head is settled into the crook of his servant's arm, effectively pinning his entire right side beneath his own weight. Frodo sniffs noisily, breaths growing more and more agitated. He watches me, wary and rigid and still in a good deal of pain. Nodding to Mablung, I wait until my lieutenant sits and draws the hobbit's legs across his lap before I circle the blanket to reach the opposite end. I feel the need to say something while I move, passing out of the halfling's sight. His back is to me now, left shoulder exposed.  
  
"Frodo, I hope to get this done quickly, and to cause you little pain."  
  
There is a brittle sound which slips from Frodo's lips, a laugh pitched more like another sob. My glance falls to Sam, who is bracing his master's head with one hand, and absently stroking the tangled curls with the other. His expression reflects a shadow of my own guilt, a gossamer thread that outwardly stretches on the thin edge of breaking, if not for an unseen tensile strength held within. I acknowledge it-and him-with a curt nod.  
  
Bending down, I rest my knees directly behind Frodo's back. Normally, for a man suffering such an injury, I would place my foot into the armpit. But with one so small, I fear that would produce too much force. Gently picking up the wrist lying limply across the hobbit's fluttering chest, I test my hold, carefully selecting where my hands will grip. Frodo startles slightly at my touch, so I know he still retains sensation in the limb, though movement is restricted so it does not travel beyond the cudgeled bones of the shoulder itself.  
  
"Do not dishearten, Frodo," I urge. "Stay strong."  
  
Firmly clasping the diminutive wrist and forearm, I apply a steady traction in trying to slip the minimally bent elbow down toward the hobbit's ribs, while at the same time turning the hand out and pulling it up to my breast. In my mind, it sounds an easy chore. In reality, it becomes a daunting battle.  
  
When I push on the halfling's elbow, Frodo makes a loud, wordless sound, spine arching away from my knees as he fights to free himself from out clutches. "No, no, I can't," he pleads, "Strider, help me!"  
  
"Sam," I remind the other, "give him the cloth to bite on!" Matching Frodo's jerky motions, I hope not to further tax the injured arm, slacking my hold to give the gardener a chance to position the makeshift bit in the hobbit's mouth.  
  
A fruitless effort, since Frodo is having none of it. He immediately spits out the rag, screeching, "No, keep away, it's mine! Let me go, you must let me go!"  
  
I cringe, and fervently wish for there to be no Orcs or Easterlings within hearing radius. "Frodo, I am endeavoring to help you! Your arm must be set!"  
  
"No!" he hisses, eyes clenched shut. "You can't have it! It's mine, my own!"  
  
Sam raises a shock-stricken stare, and attempts to soothe him. "Mr. Frodo, just be still. The 'urt will be over soon, you need to 'old on for a mite longer is all."  
  
Frodo's arm is dripping with sweat, and I nearly lose my hold. The small chin is quivering under a brow furrowed deep, in a face white with pain. Dragging in long, labored breaths, the hobbit gasps and wheezes until his eyes finally blink open, the look in them dazed and not altogether lucid.  
  
"Sam, don't let them find it, don't allow them to bind me, please.they can't know!" He is rambling, voice high and shrill. "He'll see.don't let him see.Gollum, where have you gone.you have to show us the way."  
  
Once more, I strive to reposition the shoulder, and once more, Frodo screams. I feel the arm spasm, feel my resolve begin to weaken. My conscience flays me with one thought: I am torturing this poor creature. I loosen my grasp only a little, to grant the hobbit a moment's respite from the constant torment, when suddenly Frodo starts to struggle with a violence surprising for one so wounded. The left arm hangs uselessly, leaving his legs as the choice weapon.  
  
Mablung loses control of one of the hobbit's feet long enough for Frodo to kick him squarely in the face. The halfling opens his mouth wide and howls, and the pure distress of the scream freezes us all where we sit. It is a terrible sound, an agonized wail not merely of endured hardship, but a misery reaching deeper, despair that has been festering unkindly for a very long time.  
  
This instant of distraction is my undoing. Frodo gains enough leverage to twist his body sideways so he is able to sit up, knocking Sam's hands away in the process. I turn back a second too late. Crazed blue eyes seek me out, Frodo's lips drawing up from his teeth in a furious snarl, and before I can react or know what hits me, the hobbit launches himself in my direction and grabs my thumb in his mouth, clamping down for all he is worth.  
  
I yell in pain, vaguely hearing a distant echo of Sam's voice crying, "Captain, no don't!" I am only barely able to stay my fist from where I was ready to backhand Frodo across the face. I drop my arm, englutted by my own suffering; taming it takes a sating breath and a hearty dose of will.  
  
"Frodo, let 'im go, don't go an' 'urt 'im!" The servant's plea falls on deaf ears. The wounded hobbit is beyond reason. I wince, feeling the sharp bite of my thumb being punctured by small but very sharp teeth, the warm spurt of blood when bone gnashes against bone. Grabbing a chunk of the halfling's upper right arm, I cruelly pinch the flesh with my free hand. The cycle is broken. Frodo gasps at this new abuse, then releases my thumb in a fit of gagging. He continues to choke, curling his legs up as spasms of hacking coughs assail him. When a fine red mist sprays from his mouth, I am sickened to realize it is my blood.  
  
Glassy, cerulean eyes look up at me. Sam has drawn Frodo close, wrapping stout arms around the hobbit's middle, taking care not to jostle the still-affronted shoulder. "It's alright, Mr. Frodo, it'll be right, I promise ya," Sam consoles softly, to no avail. The trembling hobbit in his arms is comfortless, breathing wracked by broken sobs as he mumbles desperately, "Please, Sam, I n-need it.give it b-back, p-please.it's m- mine. Hurts.it h-hurts t-too m-much!"  
  
"Shush now," Samwise whispers, rocking his friend gently, "it will all be over soon, don't worry. You'll 'ave it back. You just trust yer Sam, an' he'll see ya through this. Just like always, Mr. Frodo, I'll keep my promise." Sam's face is stained by tears, discomfited beyond all he has allowed me to glimpse prior. "Captain Faramir, sir, you 'ave to 'elp 'im. Please, 'e can't go on like this, 'e's been 'armed too much already."  
  
Following his sorrowful glance, I realize Frodo's mutterings have ceased, but the small hobbit is weeping uncontrollably, face buried in his servant's shirt. His distress is justly evident, still he wishes to hide it from the prying eyes of strangers. I move my look back to Sam, whose chin rests atop the dampened coils of dark hair. No dissembling marks the previously keen brown eyes as they gaze at me, now stricken and pleading and anguished.  
  
Gripping my torn thumb, I hold my tongue from what usually I would ask, and find myself saying instead, "The same shoulder?"  
  
Sam squeezes his eyes closed, tears running freely down his cheeks, and I have my answer. "'E was stabbed, an' nearly died. Aragorn kept us going, see, or we'd never 'ave reached Rivendell in time."  
  
I inhale sharply, because both names are known to me. "Rivendell?" I question pointedly, unsuccessful at masking the hoarse catch in my voice. I send a look to Mablung, who is listening with interest, and incline my head, impelling him not to speak. Rivendell is where my brother Boromir journeyed but a few months past, to meet in secret with Elves and other men to discuss the growing threat of Mordor. I swallow hard at the thought these two hobbits might know something of his fate.  
  
"We stayed there for nearly two months, 'til Mr. Frodo was well enough ta travel." Sam's eyes open, shimmering a fierce loyalty and pain for the one he holds close. "Ya still 'old to the notion we're some lowlife spies for the Dark Lord, but we're not! We was part of a fellowship that set out on a quest from Rivendell, a secret quest commanded by Lord Elrond himself. Frodo an' I struck out on our own, after Moria." His voice wavers, then hardens with newfound resolve. "After we lost Gandalf."  
  
I startle, for the gardener is dropping names he should have no knowledge of. But I continue to say nothing. My curiosity will keep.  
  
"Gandalf," Frodo whimpers, and his breath shudders softly. He is slowly calming, the sobs all but wrung from his grief.  
  
I raise my brows, and command Sam's gaze. "Gandalf," I whisper in disbelief. "The Gray Pilgrim. You also knew Mithrandir?" A half-recalled rhyme plays in my mind, about halflings and Isuldir's Bane and swords that were broken.  
  
"Gandalf was 'ead of our company, 'til 'e fell.when we passed through the mines of Moria." Sam lets out a heavy sigh, shifting Frodo so he lies more comfortably against his chest. The injured hobbit's eyes have slid closed, and exhaustion seems to be accomplishing what we could not: Frodo is finally relaxing, despite the pain he is in. "I'll be sorry if I've told ya more that I should, but it's been such a 'ard journey, we've been far from 'ome for so long now."  
  
"Indeed," I agree somberly. From the north in Eriador, to Rivendell and then through the mountains, following the path of the Anduin to reach Ithilien, these small folk have traveled farther than most of my men. Through perils they do not speak openly of, but clearly a matter of great importance, one that in some way involves my brother. I am not satisfied with this outcome, the keeping of secrets, but a single glance into the gardener's hopeful expression rekindles my resolve to save all discussion for a later time.  
  
Drawing a handkerchief from my pocket, I wrap my thumb tightly, lowering my gaze then to Frodo. The lines of pain marring his face have lessened, his breathing is greatly eased and deeper now. He is almost asleep, I would judge. I steel myself for what I must do, and whisper only a word: "Sam."  
  
The gardener avoids my eyes, but murmurs a mournful, "Aye."  
  
My hands poise steady over the halfling's left arm where it hangs limply along his exposed side, fingers hovering above wrist and elbow. Just as before. Except I must succeed, otherwise Frodo will lose the use of his arm permanently, or perhaps the arm itself. Without any herald or warning, I grab the two places on the hobbit's arm, rotating his wrist away from his side while pushing the elbow inward, and twist hard. There is a satisfying clunk as the bone slips back into its socket, and I hear it the instant before Frodo jerks fully awake and screams in agony.  
  
His cry echoes over the dell like the howl of a mortally wounded animal, a dirge that wails of injustice and never should have been written. It is a sound I hope never to hear again from the hobbit while he is in my company."  
  
To Be Continued. 


	3. Chapter Three

Judgment Reckoning  
  
Chapter Three  
  
Author: Kidders  
  
Fandom: Lord Of The Rings, The Two Towers  
  
Characters: Frodo, Sam, Captain Faramir and his men, Gollum  
  
Pairings: None, no slash  
  
Rating: PG-13 for violence and graphic medical description  
  
Genre: Angst, drama, h/c  
  
Disclaimers: See Chapter One  
  
Setting: AU, movie-verse with a bit of book thrown in, Frodo and Sam are in the forced company of Faramir and his men, journeying to Henneth Annun  
  
A/N: Thanks so much to everyone who continues to review. It means a lot to get such good feedback, especially since I'm still trying to get to know these characters. I don't know how many great stories I've read since last October, I've lost count, and haven't reviewed because of the sheer volume I've been catching up on. I mainly read Frodo stories, non-slash, and there are so many great ones out there, but I'll try to mention to those of you who wrote in how much I like your work! Hopefully, I have names and stories matched correctly, forgive me if there are any boo-boos.  
  
Claudia: Are you the same one who wrote that yummy piece about Faramir and a hurt Frodo, plus a gaggle of other tales all at the same time? If you are, my hat's off to you. How you keep the plotlines straight is beyond me, but wow! I love Clear Shot, and I know there are a few others, I just can't recall the titles at the moment. Thanks for your comments, and I eagerly await more drabbles from your pen!  
  
Shirebound: I am awed that you like my work, as I think from other A/N's you are considered one of the mavens of Frodo-angst. Glad you liked my wee bit of poor, ailing Frodo. He is my favorite character, in case you hadn't guessed g. And I dearly like your stories, as they are lighter and have more of the fellowship in them. I tend to write dark, so it is a nice climate change to read your tales. I loved the one where Legolas and Gimli were constantly arguing, and finally gave Frodo a harried meltdown! Thanks again.  
  
Ariel: You already have heard my Sally Field yammer, 'You like me, you really, really like me!' But again, you are wonderful, and a much appreciated reader/reviewer. Glad you like this one, though it is movie- verse. Also, I very much liked your story, Thicker Than Blood. Weathertop stories were among the first I read. And yes, I do like torturing Frodo (ducking head but grinning from ear-to-ear).  
  
LilyBaggins: Loved hearing from you, another talented writer whose work I admire. Really enjoyed The Pine-Woods Excursion. Poor Frodo, I definitely wouldn't want to be him! I loathed liquid meds so much that at age two, I learned to swallow a pill! Guess they made dosages low enough for someone that small, 'cause I got no more of the vile-tasting stuff. And I think.aren't you also the one writing A Little Affliction? Ohhhh, I have gotten hooked by that stinker too! Hope ya write more soon.  
  
A Elbereth: Thanks for reviewing, and also for starting a new archive. I popped over there, and the authors you have posted so far, I've read them all! I know I have read something of yours as well, just can't come up with a title. Will have to think on it. I'm glad you like TTT Faramir, and what I'm doing with the characters.  
  
Heidi Gamgee, Tathar, Rose Cotton, Kithara, Cynical Flame, Iorhael, LizzyTygrestick, and Zorra Reed: Most of your handles sound familiar, thank you so much for writing feedback! I appreciate it!  
  
A question for you all: In the movie, I never have been able to place actors with the names of Faramir's men. Any idea who looks like who, especially for Mablung and Damrod? Also, any idea who the gray-haired guy is who says: Osgiliath is under attack, they call for reinforcements, and at the end, You know the laws of your father, if you let them go, your life will be forfeit? Just would like to put more movie-verse descriptions in, and I can't remember any of them being called by name.  
  
On with the story! Spoilers for The Two Towers ahead!  
  
Chapter Three POV: Sam  
  
It's with a heavy heart I trudge back to the blanket where Frodo lies, my feet dragging with the burden of this errand Faramir has charged me to. In my head, I know 'tis necessary-Mr. Frodo's hurt bad, he needs tending. Only, the others, they don't understand what they're asking of my master. They don't realize what all he's been through, how the Black Riders and their Witch-King hunted him, how the snowy mountain and the spiteful Saruman brought a treacherous avalanche down upon us, how the trek through Moria took one of our own. Most of all, they don't know about the blasted Ring and the dreadful burden it puts upon him. That inexecrable scrap of metal, I wish Bilbo had never, ever found it!  
  
I stop dead in my tracks, a cold shiver bristling goose-flesh down my arms as I suddenly cotton on to a notion of what's wrong: the Captain said Mr. Frodo's chest has to be bare. So he could better feel the bones and make the mending easier, especially since Frodo's so much smaller than the men he's used to treating. But the Ring, Faramir will see it if I do as he's asked. He'll see it, and want the answer to its secrets! O', save me, o' dear, what do I do? Mr. Frodo won't want me taking the Ring, but I can't leave it on the chain around his neck.  
  
Grief-shot, I drop to my knees beside Frodo, wanting to numb myself to this unfair dole he should have to brave, knowing all the while it is hopeless. I would take his place, if I could, to spare my master what's coming. O' Gandalf, did you know what would befall Frodo when you let him take the Ring?  
  
"Mr. Frodo?" I call softly. He startles fitfully, uncurling from the ball he has made himself into. His legs move without much effort, but everything else seems to hurt him. Even his head, with one cheek pillowed atop the bedroll, moves little.  
  
"No, Sam." He lies completely still, eyes dull but spearing an urgent plea. "Please ask them to wait a while longer, so I can rest. I cannot go on as I am.please ask it of their leader. Just for awhile yet."  
  
"We're not leavin' presently, Mr. Frodo. That's what I came to tell ya." I chew nervously on my lip. How do I tell this straight without making matters worse? "The Captain, 'e says.'e 'as to put yer arm back to the way it was."  
  
If it were possible, I'd say Frodo's face goes even paler. His skin's ghostly white, like the snow on them mountains we passed over, and he's got that gasted look of travail he wore after Weathertop. He draws his knees closer to his chest, the fingers of his left hand drooping limply off the side of his hip. "Will it not heal on its own?" he implores in a whisper. "I can't bear for it to be touched. Even by my own hand, the pain is too great. It's too soon. Please don't let him near me, Sam."  
  
My deliberate pause stretches on for longer than I intend. Frodo's gaze sharpens, crystal dots of sweat gathering about his upper lip and forehead. His big, blue eyes blink at me in suspicion and dread, until I finally unlock my voice and say with difficulty, "The muscles 'ave been sorely twisted for too long already. Faramir.'e says there are nerves an' tendons an' tubules goin' through the shoulder ta nourish the rest of yer arm. That arm will be crippled if we leave it like it is, Mr. Frodo. An' with the shoulder out o' commission, ya won't be able to travel, an' perform the duty ya pledged." I don't like landing the last blow, forced to grit the words out in a choked vein. "We'd 'ave to return to Rivendell."  
  
Silence fetters the night air all around us. It seems to last a lifetime, while I hear the Captain and Mablung shifting their feet impatiently in the well-trodden ground, my own heart bellowing unwelcome accompaniment in my ears. And my master's breathing isn't easing, not by half.  
  
Frodo stares at me long and hard, his tone is hesitant when he asks, "Is Faramir.is he a healer like Str.Aragorn?"  
  
There is renewed hope in his voice, and I can't escape my sigh, the truth so much harder to carry than the pack I've hauled on my back. "No, Faramir's gests are noble, I'll wager, least to 'im. I hate to say, but 'e doesn't possess no 'ealin' skills compared to the likes of Strider."  
  
I see his throat jump in a hurried swallow, a noisy breath following that sounds hacking and rough. Frodo makes an awful frown, like a lump just slid down his gullet. "So there will be nothing offered to dull my pain."  
  
"Just yer loyal, persistent Sam, with a 'and-fast 'old an' all the encouragement a body could want." I try to make light of it, but my tone doesn't even come close. There's a load of worry in my voice I cannot hide, least of all from my gentle master.  
  
"Sam, I.I never thought to be tested this way," Frodo murmurs, rubbing the back of his right hand over the blanket's trappings. "I don't know if I can trust myself to hold firm.I'm so tired. It's so heavy on me, and now there is the pain on top of everything e-else." Fraught with weakness, he shuts his eyes, wanting to hide from the paining toil which grinds at him without mercy. Then something prods him to lift his lids again. "It is too much, Sam. I don't think I shall be able to endure this hardship."  
  
Frodo's look harrows me to the bone-tears water in his eyes like silver rain caught just as the sun's setting, clear as day under the amber glow of the torches. 'Tis a look that beseeches me not to put him through any more hurtful challenges. I have to work at it to go against his wishes, and the feeling makes me sick to my stomach.  
  
"There's no other way, Frodo. Ya 'ave to do this, an' ya are strong enough, if ya don't mind me sayin'. You've got a strength in you that just won't give in, no matter what. It's kept ya goin' this far, it'll still be there with ya after we're done, too!" I blush, aware my voice is a shade too loud. "Think of the fortnight we spent travelin' to Rivendell. You were in an awful bad way, but ya made it, you survived. Beatin' all the odds. Beatin' even 'im, an' I'm certain that riled those hooded culprits! Like Strider said, yer made of stern stuff. More than ya realize, Mr. Frodo. We've all seen it." Even more, Gandalf and Lord Elrond saw it. The White Lady, as well. I do not say this aloud, but Frodo must glean what I'm thinking, for warmth sheds a bit of the gloom from his eyes. "What Faramir wants to do, it'll be a jaunt through Farmer Maggot's crops stood up against the hurt of a Morgul blade."  
  
Frodo's lips twitch, forming the barest trace of a smile. It heartens me to see it, so I press myself to bring up the thing that's going to upset him most. "Let me 'elp ya to sit up, the Captain says I 'ave to remove yer tunic and waistcoat."  
  
Eyes narrowing, a tiny frown springs up between Frodo's brows. "What do you mean?"  
  
I try to hold my breath, but can't do that and talk at the same time. I sigh, glance up into the treetops, and sigh again. "Faramir needs to be able to feel the bones of yer shoulder, remember? So e'll know fer sure when they're set proper."  
  
Frodo blinks at me wearily, like he wished the forest and everything in it would suddenly disappear. "All right, Sam," he eventually agrees, "if you must." I stay still, and the glaze comes back into his eyes as he says crossly, "I can't sit up on my own. You shall have to help me. The arm won't move. I can feel the pain, but little else."  
  
"O' course I will 'elp ya, it's just." I lower my head until I'm nearly nose-to-nose with Frodo. I don't want the men to hear. "It's the Ring," I whisper, "Faramir will see. You 'ave to take it off."  
  
Frodo's mouth drops open, and he greedily sucks air, eyes growing impossibly large, the blue in them dented with too much black. He looks stricken by such a shock, 'tis as if I asked him to cut off his arm.  
  
"No, Sam, I will not!" he cries sharply, and I frantically push my hand across his mouth.  
  
"Keep yer voice down!" I bade, cautiously lifting my fingers.  
  
"You shan't have it!! It's mine!" he hisses, quaking so violently his teeth start to chattering.  
  
I shake my head, scowling at the beck the trinket holds over him. "I don't want it!" I hiss right back. Bless me, we're too loud. The nervous glance I throw over one shoulder is met with stern, simmering disapproval. A fierce glare is all I can summon in return before I turn back to my master. "It's yer task, Mr. Frodo. But if the Captain sees it, 'e'll want to know about it. That Ring, as I understand, wants to get to Mordor. Our way so far 'as been slow an' ploddin', so if a man-and 'tis men who are so easily corrupted by its evil-were to pick it up and put it on, the Ring would abandon ya. Either way, it would be forever lost to ya, Mr. Frodo. Least with me, you'll get it back," I heave breathlessly. "Now let me roll ya on yer back, an' I'll get it. Put it safe in my pocket 'til their eyes aren't so fixed on ya."  
  
Looking not to blink, Frodo catches his lip between his teeth to stop it from trembling, his gaze fearfully searching my face. The indecision I read there makes me almost flinch-that cursed Ring has made him afraid of me! "Frodo, I would never do nothin' ta 'urt you! Trust me, trust yer Sam!"  
  
Blue eyes bore into me for a long, disturbing moment, until Frodo works his throat trying to speak, and I feel the unrestrained panting of his breath scald hot on the side of my cheek. "Sam, the.t-the Ring." The words are barely a croak. Since I can barely hear them, I rest assured the men around us can't. "I don't want to g-give it up. I know you m-mean well, but-" His voice strangles, a spasm of pain pinching his features into a shattered vision of rising despair. "Can I not still h-hold it? In m-my pocket, perhaps?"  
  
I don't tell him, but truth be known, I'd just assume he not have to fight the wicked call of the Ring, have it wanting to drain his will while Faramir's fixing to remedy his shoulder. He'll tolerate the hurt better without its meddling interference. "Lyin' the way ya are, what if it falls out on the ground?"  
  
He shivers, the thought of that mischance obviously troubling. Grunting softly, a reluctant acceptance settles over him. "All right, take it. Take it before I." Mouth clamping shut, he winces, and I gingerly stretch out my fingers and slip them beneath his tunic. Frodo makes a small whimper of distress when I ease the chain from its resting place and take the Ring. Cupping it in my palm, I stare a moment. Funny, I expected to feel some twisted yearning when I touched it, but the band feels ordinary, smooth and light.  
  
Afraid Faramir will catch a glimpse of the silver's glitter, I don't dare place it about my own neck, stuffing it deep into the pocket of my breeches instead. My master's eyes are drawn to my every move, and I watch him track the Ring 'til it's completely out of sight. His jaw clenches, lids abruptly scrunching closed, a single dismayed sigh slipping from his throat before he sinks his front teeth into the dappled pinkness of his lips, bringing a drop of blood welling to the chapped surface. The want in his eyes is feverishly affected, cold desire burning for that thing he's been toting since we left the Shire. It might as well be an iron shackle, tied to it as he is.  
  
Reaching carefully, I ply my hands to the middle of Frodo's back and help him to sit up. Curling my legs under and sitting on my haunches, I keep one arm around his waist for added support. After unfastening the Elven cloak, I slowly undo all the buttons on his waistcoat and ease it from his shoulders, copying the one-handed grip for the tunic, only the shirt buttons are smaller, and soon I'm silently cursing the variable tremble in my fingertips. By the time I finish, Frodo has his good hand wrapped in a fistful of my cloak and all the cloth underneath he can reach, and ain't letting go.  
  
"Come on, Mr. Frodo. Let's get ya settled back on the bedroll."  
  
"No!" The protest rings suddenly loud, full of fear and dread, and it takes a good deal of gentle prodding and maneuvering on my part to get him to lie down again. "No, Sam, don't." His eyes fall shut, and I hear the soft, sure-footed steps of Captain Faramir approaching us from behind.  
  
"Don't fret, yer Sam will look after ya," I whisper kindly.  
  
When the fell job is done, I'm not sure which was worse-the thunk that crooked bone makes as Faramir finally jolts it back into place, or the shrill scream that follows.  
  
"Saaammm!" Frodo's voice cracks into another of those terribly pained cries, and he hiccups and sobs and convulses in a shudder before collapsing back to my breast with a reedy, choked-off sigh.  
  
"'Tis all over, Mr. Frodo. It's done, my dear. That pain should start easin' up soon," I comfort, smoothing the dripping fringe off his brow, feeling the steady stream of tears burning down my cheeks. Frodo tries to retreat from my touch, but the pain and weakness prevents it, and his head flops like a limp rag and abuts my shoulder.  
  
"But I w-was almost a-asleep," he rues, sniveling brokenly. "It's so h-hard to rest any-mo-more, you should h-have let m-me be. It h-hurts so, Sam, I n-need it." His labored desolation nearly breaks my heart, and I wonder how many more times during this wretched adventure I will hear him call for help, and be able to do nothing other than whisper meaningless drabble. "H-how m-much longer will y-you k-keep it?"  
  
"Shh, not long." I glance up through watery eyes to see Faramir holding a folded strip of cloth.  
  
"We need to bind the arm so the shoulder cannot be moved. He should not try to raise his arm for several days at least, that will allow the muscles to heal and the joint to re-stabilize."  
  
Several days.weeks? Good gracious, how will we keep the Ring a secret for that long?  
  
To Be Continued. 


	4. Chapter Four

Judgment Reckoning  
  
Chapter Four  
  
Author: Kidders  
  
Fandom: Lord Of The Rings, The Two Towers  
  
Characters: Frodo, Sam, Captain Faramir and his men, Gollum  
  
Pairings: None, no slash  
  
Rating: PG-13 for violence and graphic medical description  
  
Genre: Angst, drama, h/c  
  
Disclaimers: I don't own anything, see Chapter One  
  
Setting: AU, movie-verse with a bit of book, going to Henneth Annun  
  
A/N: Thanks to Shirebound, Claudia, and QT-Pie for your wonderful and encouraging comments. Hope you enjoy this next chapter. It's taken me a bit longer, due to my having a nasty bout of stomach flu.  
  
Spoilers for The Two Towers ahead!  
  
Chapter Four POV: Faramir  
  
The servant watches me with hawk-like eyes, no doubt searching for any sign of foul play on my part as I bind his master's shoulder. He need not worry, I have no intent to cause further harm to the little one. The screams already uttered this night were quite sufficient to make my blood run cold. More so, since I feel in part responsible for the suffering the halfling must endure. We men of Gondor do not partake in the torture of those caught trespassing on our lands, merely deliver the offenders to my father for final judgment. Alas, this will be the fate so rendered upon these two hobbits, though not for some time. The wounded one must rest and recuperate before he is well enough to travel. We will seek shelter in our refuge of Henneth Annun, until such a day stands ready.  
  
Having cut two sections from the bottom of my cloak, I kneel to wrap the first strip around Frodo's left wrist, looping it snug and winding the excess cloth about his waist so I can immobilize the entire forearm against his belly. From the other portion, I fashion a sling, slipping the largest fold beneath his elbow and knotting the top securely over his right shoulder. This will serve to keep his arm angled just below his ribs and prevent any movement, willing or not. Frodo lies slackly quiescent in Sam's hold while I work, eyes lidded heavy by fatigue and the recent onslaught of pain, unshed tears clinging to his lashes. From the quickened pace of his breathing, I judge he is awake, but the experience of having his shoulder reset has left him too enervated to summon any protest to my ministering. He barely reacts while I position his arm in the sling and refasten his tunic with the arm tucked inside, just gives a breathy sigh when I finally release my grip and draw away.  
  
"You should take some rest, Frodo," I urge him. "We can only remain here a few hours."  
  
Samwise makes every effort to recline his master upon the pillow newly folded from his cloak, but strangely, this action is what spurs Frodo to rebellion. While Sam tries to compel him to lie down, the injured one nimbly evades his servant's grasp, hunching forward and pulling his feet in. Unless Sam wants to induce pain, he is outmatched.  
  
Frodo sets his mouth in a belligerent frown, and implores fretfully, "Sam, remember your promise."  
  
Observing the exchange, I inquire, "Shall I assist you?" of the gardener, and become the target of an aggravated look I raise my brows, and he relents, favoring me with a tamer mien.  
  
"No, Captain, please.let me 'andle this."  
  
"As you wish." I stand, and move to join Mablung at the edge of our small campsite, leaving the hobbits to their privacy. My lieutenant is dutifully scanning the surrounding tree line, though briefly his eyes brush upon our two visitors.  
  
"They are strange folk," he remarks, gaze returning to careful study of the forest. "Not Orcs, nor working for them I have no doubt, but there is something unusual.a secretive air perhaps, that does not sit well with me."  
  
I nod slowly, my thoughts straying to Boromir. "They came from Rivendell," I muse, then shake off my suspicions, for now is not time for such discussions. "Keep alert," I tell him. "I want to know if any of the Enemy close to within a league of our position."  
  
Posing no further question, Mablung offers up his torch and departs to scout our perimeter, though I know he yearns-as do I-to hear the accounting these two hobbits would plead on their behalf. My mind is brimming with the multitude of unvoiced queries, for my brother was our Captain-General and is sorely missed. Already professed is the halflings' knowledge of Mithrandir, whom I first saw as a child when he came to the house of Denethor, seeking our recorded history on such matters as Isildur and the Great Battle. Then there is the mention of Aragorn, son of Arathorn, reputed by some to be the heir of Isildur Elendil himself.  
  
Grief strikes deep in my heart as I recall Boromir as I last saw him: floating in a credent descry of gray construct, a broken sword clasped between lifeless hands as the strange craft passed down the Anduin and into the sea. Lost forever, barring both reason and cause from my inquest, until fortune chances a forthright meeting of these small outsiders. What treachery befell my brother, and by what truth do the hobbits claim as coming from Imladris?  
  
The sudden quiet beckons my glance to fall in their direction, where it is evident Sam has finally convinced his master to recline and rest easy. Frodo lies curled on his side, his cloak blanketing him from chin to knee. His shivering is at last abated, and his eyes have drifted closed, but it is the rapt smile on the halfling's lips that captures my full attention. It is such an expression of immodest delight, I look twice to verify what I am seeing. Something, some request given by the injured hobbit has been well attended, and since I saw no food or drink offered, there must be another explanation. A reason as would prompt this uncanny change. Could Frodo's fair mood have something to do with the mysterious "it" they constantly discuss?  
  
Thusly do the words of my troubling dream rekindle: 'Seek for the sword that was broken, in Imladris it dwells; There shall be shown a token that Doom is near at hand, for Isildur's Bane shall waken, and the Halfling forth shall stand.' Is it too much a coincidence that here are two halflings, far from their home, yet apparently traveling a path taking them ever eastward? The dream came oft to me before my brother departed Minas Tirith, riddling words that did not reveal their secret. I fought to be chosen, be the one who should seek out this Imladris, a lored Elven valley somewhere to the north, hoping to find an ally strong enough to aid us in our continuing struggle to hold the Enemy at bay, prevent the dearn which darkens the east from reaching the shores of the River, so Osgiliath should not fall. But my father would not be swayed. The journey would be long and wrought with unknown peril, so Denethor bequeathed the task to his eldest son. How I wish it to have been otherwise.  
  
I release a deeply worn sigh, the many nights without sleep breeding a nagging ache along every inch of my spine. Still, a restless energy consumes me. I do not care for bidding time out in the open like this. The Enemy is always on the move of late, and we lie exposed here in the dell, an ambush ripe to be sprung. I frown, a dark chill sweeping through my limbs, the sound of my name a whispering rustle of leaves scattered in a brisk wind. With a start, I glance down, and find I have crossed the clearing while in my daze. I stand at the corner of the bedroll, staring at the two huddled forms without any clear reason of what I came prepared to do.  
  
Unintentionally, I catch the gardener's gaze, Sam's eyes filling full of a wild, unbridled fear as he cranes his head to look up at me, hand reaching protectively to lay upon Frodo's neck, as if he were shielding his master from my wrath. My look must be dour indeed to elicit such a dramatic reaction, so I try to affect a milder countenance, offsetting my confusion at the same time.  
  
"You have no cause to fear me, Samwise. I intend no harm to come to you, my word has been justly given. You both are under my protection."  
  
The fear fades, but there is doubt still reflected in the candid brown eyes lingering upon my face. Judgment is yet to reckon with, and I briefly entertain notions of what it will take to earn this stalwart hobbit's trust. More, apparently, than I am to offer at present.  
  
"Sam." A mountant stress trills in the wounded one's voice as he wakes, eyes glazing open to dart anxiously from side to side. "I can hear them calling to me.so loud, so near."  
  
Is it my imagination, or is there an odd fluttering in the sky above? Sam glances to me, almost galled at my very presence. "They can't see us down 'ere, we're too small. So don't ya worry none."  
  
Frodo frowns deeply, hardly reassured. "It hurts to lie like this," he complains, fist clenched under his chin. "And I'm very cold. Did Strider not mention there was an extra blanket?"  
  
Sam blanches, his bearing forlorn. "No, sir, I'm sorry. There ain't nothin' but the cloaks. How about sittin' up an' takin' some water?"  
  
"Yes," Frodo agrees dolefully, "I am thirsty." With Sam helping to steady the water skin, the hobbit manages to take a few swallows, but tires quickly. "I know I keep asking," he mumbles, "how much farther is it to Rivendell?"  
  
Even I frown, for it seems a bad sign to be of such impaired faculty. Crouching so the little one and I are at eye level, I question, "Do you know who I am, Frodo?"  
  
His stare is somewhat vacant as he peers at me, in a gaze lost and troubled, face pinched by intense concentration. Nodding, he says, "You are familiar.though I." His breath quivers uncertainly, the blue eyes losing what focus they had attained. "You.y-you." Frodo sighs faintly, toppling into the sturdy arms of his master. Alarmed, I fall to my knees and put my hand to his chest. Frodo's breathing has galvanized, his chest heaving in ever pressing shudders, every draw for air feeling an undue hardship, a trembling fear vibrating through my palm and bursting forth unchecked.  
  
"NO!" Frodo gasps. "Keep away! She said you would try to take it! Our fellowship is broken, you are not yourself!"  
  
"Frodo, stop!" Sam calls. A warning?  
  
"Who?" I demand. "What do you see?"  
  
"B-Boromir," Frodo exclaims raggedly.  
  
A cold, icy river flows through my bowels, churning up eddies of shock and coating my tongue with the bitterness of bile. "Boromir?" I echo raspily, staking the torch into the trodden soil. Haze replete with anger and sorrow occludes my sight, my fingers clawing for purchase in the folds of cloak and cloth. Taking a fistful of Frodo's tunic, I yank him towards me. "What do you know of the Captain of the White Tower?" I growl. The halfling's face grows ashen, his eyes locked on mine, lips trembling in haste to form words, but all that emerges is a feeble cry. "Do not misspeak, my patience wears thin! Tell me!"  
  
"Captain, you let 'im be! You'll 'urt 'im! Please."  
  
The gardener's plea rings true, only the forest has narrowed to myself and this halfling, so I do not heed his call. They know of my brother's demise, they shall answer to it. Slim, delicate fingers curl about my wrist, seeking to loosen my hold; their grip is appallingly weak, knuckles teeming a bone-white hue as they clench and pull in worrisome design. "What fate has learned you of Boromir?" I shake him roughly. "You are bound to speak, without parley!"  
  
"No, don't." Frodo's eyes are shocked painfully wide, his entire body rigid with fear. He begins repeating over and over, "Don't.please don't!"  
  
"Stop it!" Sam enjoins, falling in behind his master. "Can't ya see yer scarin' 'im witless? 'E can't answer ya, not like this! 'E's too sick!"  
  
The mired thoughts stuck in my mind slowly lift, and I glimpse how truly frightened Frodo is. Dismay runs the flushing heat of guilt to my cheekbones, and I abruptly release him. His knees drop hard and fast to the ground, jolt losing him his balance and canting him sideways so he falls mostly on his left side. It all happens so fast, Sam and I are unable to cushion his landing.  
  
A hoarse cry of pain is driven from the hobbit as he hits. Frodo recoils and rolls quickly to the right, curling around himself and grabbing his shoulder, fingers clutched below the junction of bone. I silently curse my ill-tempered callousness, and reach for the arm. "Frodo, let me see."  
  
"I think you've done quite enough," criticizes Sam, crawling to his master's side. "'E doesn't need anymore of yer 'elp."  
  
"You speak frankly though falsely, Master Gamgee." He glowers, so I add, "I do not excuse my conduct, moreover there is reason for it. All I am asking it to check the arm." He says nothing. Already mistrustful, I realize atonement will be long in coming from Sam. Therefore, I address the one most affronted by my actions. "Frodo?"  
  
"I am fine," a muffled voice rebukes. "It only hurt for a m-moment." Worn by this newest insult, Frodo buries his nose in his knees, breath punctuated by uneasy hitches.  
  
Hiding his face keeps me from reading the look in his eyes; the attainted shrill quality of his voice, however, testifies to his rightful state. 'Fine' would not be a description I would choose. "Permit me to check your arm, then you can take some more rest, Frodo."  
  
"No." Slightly belligerent, his refusal is not surprising.  
  
"Frodo, I apologize for my breach of conduct. No matter the reason, I treated you deplorably." I touch his arm, and he jumps like a drenched cat. Giving him no opportunity to squirm, I probe the area of injury. It is with relief I relay, "There is no further damage done, though the joint is deeply bruised, and your shoulder will likely remain quite sore for several days." A long interval of silence ensues. "Do you understand?"  
  
"O' course 'e does," Sam snorts in derision. "There's naught wrong with 'is 'earing."  
  
"I was asking Frodo." An edge has crept back into my tone, sufficient the servant does not challenge me again.  
  
A pair of apprehensive blue eyes emerge from beneath tousles of sweat- soaked curls. He squints at me before agreeing hesitantly, "Yes."  
  
"Do you recognize me now? Can you recall what has happened?"  
  
He blinks slowly, as if still wandering lost in a foggy shroud. "I suppose. Everything seems distant, like a dream. I cannot see properly at times. But you are called Captain Faramir, are you not?" He looks to me, wishing confirmation, so I nod. "Where is Sam?"  
  
"Right 'ere, Mr. Frodo. An' not lookin' to budge from this spot anytime soon." I keep my expression neutral. Tolerance would appear to be my best ally. "Why don't ya lean on me, and I'll get ya bedded down on the blanket."  
  
"No, not right now, Sam," Frodo says, though his glance remains on me. He frowns, searching my face, as if seeking the merit of my worth.  
  
"Surely ya don't want to stay knocked flat on the ground!" Credit is due the servant, he is nothing if not persistent.  
  
"I would rather not be moved," Frodo protests, a sharpness beginning to grate in his voice.  
  
"You were a friend of Boromir's?" I ask succinctly.  
  
Frodo looks at me, askance. He quickly struggles to sit up, a sudden intake of breath telling of his pain. "Boromir?" he murmurs, a luminous glean of confusion misting over his eyes. 'Tis almost as if the halfling isn't able to verify what fact has been spoken, even by his tongue.  
  
"You knew him." I do not make it a question.  
  
Sam's eyes narrow is suspicion. "Why do ya want to know?"  
  
I opt to reveal the truth. "He was my brother," I say softly.  
  
Their reaction is quite interesting: Sam gasps, the expanse of his upset clearly revealed; Frodo appears struck senseless. I had thought the injured hobbit pale already. What small vestige of color was reclaimed now drains from his face until the skin is of unhealthy translucence, a pallid, anaemic gray which rapidly seeps to alarming green as I watch. Frodo gulps and swallows, driven forward by a violent, choking spasm as his stomach ejects its contents onto the ground separating us. It is mostly liquid, pale green and foul smelling. From the sparse volume, I gather the hobbit hasn't been eating much of late. I also recognize I should have foreseen this, considering the blow the halfling sustained to his head.  
  
Frodo is moaning quietly, free hand braced as he kneels low, head hanging down while he gasps and wheezes, fighting to breathe through the wretched heaving of his belly. Sam moves in to support his master's head just as the little one's arm folds from the strain. A queasy flutter twitches in my gut, and I wince in sympathy. Things seem to conspire against this wounded hobbit, and I can't help but blame myself in part for this latest episode. Only the knowledge that the blood of kin should take precedence grants me a measure of peace. Boromir was dear to me, yet I find myself drawn to these two strangers, for reasons I cannot fathom. I am inclined to pity and comfort, rather than the harsher judgment I should wield. The final word has always rested in Denethor's hands, and 'tis troubling I find myself doubting the value of such a decree.  
  
Sam's soothing tenor breaks upon my muses, startling me back to the present. He has his hand tucked under his master's forehead, arm curled low and snug below the injured one's waist. "There now, Mr. Frodo, you let me do all the work. This pang'll end soon."  
  
Frodo looks to be completely spent, dead weight in the gardener's arms. His insides still heave, and the hobbit is panting harshly, choking swallows rattling in his throat before he retches uncontrollably, gagging on the dry shudders relentlessly consuming him from within. At last, the spasms ease, leaving Frodo to sag limply into Sam's awaiting clutches. I locate the last clean handkercher I carry, and silently offer it to the servant, suddenly feeling very wearied, my thumb smarting in a steady, throbbing ache, counterpoint to the racing pulse of my heart.  
  
Sam is too caught up in tending to his master to spare me even the slightest of accusing glances. Sorrow lines his face as he sets to the task of sopping the sweat from Frodo's cheeks and brow, wiping away the drool and vomit that has dribbled down the small chin. Frodo's eyes are half-closed, suspended between sleep and wakefulness; he trembles much from cold and exertion, misery having stolen most of his awareness.  
  
"There are a few hours left 'til dawn," I tell Sam. "Your master has earned his rest, I would say." Removing my cloak, I lower it over the shivering hobbit, tucking the corners gently around both shoulders before raising my scrutiny to meet the shaken, startled brown eyes of my guest. A troubled sigh parts my lips. "Keep him warm, Sam."  
  
To Be Continued. 


	5. Chapter Five

Judgment Reckoning  
  
Chapter Five  
  
Author: Kidders  
  
Fandom: Lord Of The Rings, The Two Towers  
  
Pairings: None, no slash  
  
Rating PG-13 for violence and graphic medical description  
  
Genre: Angst, drama, h/c  
  
Disclaimers: None of it's mine, credit belongs to Tolkien, Peter Jackson and New Line Cinema, ad infinitum. Forgot last chapter, the rhyme Faramir quotes is also Tolkien's, though everyone probably knew that g.  
  
Setting: Still on the way to Henneth Annun, and mostly movie-verse, slightly AU. PJ's version was my first taste of this great universe, as a result I am heavily influenced by the films. Though, like you Ariel, I am clinging to the hope that ROTK will be gut-wrenching and gritty and hard, and that Frodo definitely will get his chance to really shine and be the heart and undaunted soul of this wonderful epic.  
  
A/N: Shirebound, your comments continue to be an inspiration, thank you so much. And I'm loving Quarantined! QTPie-2488, yes this will be mostly movie-verse, as said above. I picture all the characters as PJ cast them, even when reading the books (which I've only made it through once so far, without the appendices-I haven't tackled those yet!). I might bring in a thread or two from the book, there are scenes in this chapter that were in the book but I tried to write my own version, without referring back to Tolkien, just for variety. I also will use some brief dialogue from the movie, which I'm sure you'll recognize, in case I forget to credit those things. I enjoy hearing from you. A Elbereth, thanks for your continuing reviews. I am enjoying much your latest tale When Storms Break Loose, when I have time to read and peruse ff.net. I can't recall if I reviewed there yet or not, I included you in a general posting on the FH's group, though I realize WSBL won't be there. That last chapter had me really feeling for poor Frodo when he was in the bath shiver! Obelia medusa, glad you're enjoying it. Hopefully my next post won't take so long. Faramir was determined to stay stuck in my head, and Sam had to fight to get back in g. aelfgifu, there's definitely some ring glow on the way, maybe not this chapter, but in later ones. Glad you like it, and thanks for reviewing. Bookworm2000, be glad you've never really experienced pain, it is no fun at all, let me tell ya. I have had a chronic pain syndrome which causes spasms and constant aching in all of my muscles (medical term = fibromyalgia) and joints for the last three years, and since the doctors/researchers don't know the cause, all they can do is treat the symptoms. The only positive thing this disease has done for me, among all the many negatives, is it gives me good insight into what feeling pain really does feel like. They say write what you know, and I know medicine and I know pain, so I guess I'm stuck writing angst. Hehehe.it's sad, but it does give me some enjoyment, an outlet of sorts, and I love hearing from all of you. Feedback is wonderful. Shirebound, that's why your stories are like a day at the beach for me. The Frodo angst is there, but it's more a nice oboe or violin solo, rather than the entire horn section g. Lovely. For the FrodoHealers group, I want to thank Claudia, you've been reviewing regularly, and it's great to hear from you each chapter. You also clicked on the idea that much of Frodo's pain and fear is due to the Ring's influence, and his concussion, and once he heals a little and gets some of his strength back, he's not going to be so docile anymore. Tiggivon, always a faithful feedback issuer, I'm glad you are liking my newest attempt. Thank you! Elwen, Ancalime, and Slipstream, thanks for posting. I always enjoy hearing from new people. And last but not least, Ariel, you are my like my personal trainer (yeesh, wish I could afford one for real), it's your encouragement I hear when I'm down or have a bit of writer's block, that says keep going, you're actually putting out something good and worthy, that I show quality. Thank you, my friend, if I might humbly call you that.  
  
On with the story! Spoilers for The Two Towers ahead!  
  
Chapter Five POV: Sam  
  
If I had my druthers, I'd gladly throttle that shifty Captain Faramir right about now. Give him a good tongue-lashing I would, if I was able, for what he did wasn't altogether proper. But the way Mr. Frodo's laid out, I don't feel I should move him anymore that's needed. 'Sides, hearing me blubber at the top of my lungs would only go and upset him more. 'Tis best he stays quiet and rests.  
  
I accept the piece of cloth the Captain offers me, and begin the onerous task of making my master more presentable. Heaven forfend, none of the foul mess went to stain Frodo's clothes. Then we'd really be in a fix. No amount of sweet-talking would convince him to strip down, not with the Ring around his neck again. What with master's head and shoulders nestled snug in the crook of my arm, and his back pressed against my knees, Mr. Frodo shouldn't be moving much, not of his own accord. But he's quaking like he's caught his death of cold, and his eyes are barely slit open, just the whites are showing.  
  
That hanky's soaked through in no time when I sponge off the heavy mask of sweat that's been springing up to drench his entire face. I can feel the steady flood of tiny rivulets slicking down his nape, wetting the dried crusts in his hair so they cling to the top of my arm like sticky apple jelly. From the last dry corner, I wipe off what's left of the nasty dribble caught on my master's chin and lips. Frodo's jaw's gone slack, teeth parted slightly; I can hear the frantic wheezes air is making as it passes through his throat. Even though he's collapsed, his body's still set on dragging out this awful sickness, seeing to it that he suffers. I wish now I'd never given the Ring back, only he was wanting it so badly, what else was I to do?  
  
By all that's just, what if the thing's wicked influence is impelling his hurt to worsen? Dear me, I'm not cut out for such misadventures. 'Twould be much better if it were Mr. Frodo keeping a clear head. I suppose I'll have to make the best of what's happened, come what may. I made a promise, and more above, I intend to stand by it. "Lay quiet and get some sleep, Frodo. I'll watch over ya, an' make sure nothin' bad 'appens."  
  
Wracked by a long spell of fierce shivering, Frodo cries out softly, the sound telling of his misery. He huddles against me, and I gather it's warmth he's wanting. I draw him as close as I dare, trying not to disturb that ailing shoulder of his, though I'm certain these dire chills must be paining him some. Our cloaks are out of reach, or I'd put them right to use.  
  
Caught up in grim ponderings, I'm unprepared for the sudden blur of movement which skulks across my view. I startle, jostling my poor master so that he whimpers loudly in protest, only to have a fit of choking strangle what's left of his voice. He sniffles, having a hard time swallowing. No wonder, a rheumy purge running from his nose like it is. I sense Faramir above us, and try not to scowl. Even if Boromir is his brother, that don't excuse what the Captain did to Mr. Frodo-routing him like he was some scoundrel found lurching on the side of the road. I dab listlessly at the mess issuing from his nose, sorrow deepening the lonely wedge dammed tight behind my eyes.  
  
Faramir breaks the silence. "There are a few hours left 'til dawn. Your master has earned his rest, I would say."  
  
I refuse to look at him. Does he expect a reply? I wouldn't trust myself yet to utter any sort of pleasantry, so I stew and think foul thoughts about all men, except for maybe Strider. And it's then the Captain turns and does something I would never have guessed: he removes his woolen cloak and gently tucks it over my master. Throat parched dry as cotton still on the vine, my eyes dart up to meet his. I'm not sure I can speak, whether or not I know what to say in the first place.  
  
The Captain sighs, perhaps 'tis a sad note, I can't rightly tell. "Keep him warm, Sam," he murmurs, then walks away, leaving me gaping in disbelief. What roguish plot is he conniving? I can't abide him being nicely courteous one minute, and prickly rude the next. I've half a mind to tell him so, except it would unduly burden Mr. Frodo. I can feel that awful tenseness in him beginning to unwind, letting him slowly relax in my arms. If my biting my tongue will give my master some well-deserved peace and quiet, I'm glad to do it.  
  
Dawn comes too early for my liking, only near upon an hour it seems before most of Faramir's men return. Not long enough for Frodo to rest properly, by far. I stay put as much as possible, watching while torches are doused and the rest of our packs are gathered up. Frodo needs every wink of sleep he's able to get before I go and move him. His breathing slowed a lot from earlier, hitching only now and then, and it doesn't drag him from his slumber. Every so often, a sigh breaks from his lips and his face scrunches up, knuckles digging sharply into my ribs, and I wonder what demon it is he's fighting. 'Tis no surprise he's got great, dark smudges underneath his eyes. Whenever he manages to fall asleep, something always happens to disturb him-Gollum, Black Riders, this staunch Captain.  
  
"Sam."  
  
The call of my name carries clearly, what I've been dreading. I swallow my anger, and reluctantly raise my gaze to Faramir. "We must take our leave," he says, making it sound like a request, though we both know it's nothing but. Frodo doesn't stir, but when I look back, his mouth has tensed and his forehead is twitching, brows contorting into a pained frown.  
  
"What about Mr. Frodo? Can't we stay a bit longer?" I plead.  
  
"It is no longer safe. Some of the Easterlings have regrouped, and are joined by a new legion. They've been spotted on the road, some even venture into the woods. We must extend the distance between us." His gaze veers upward, and I follow its direction, half afraid of what I might see. "Moreover, the weather is changing. A storm is moving in, and I doubt a cold drenching would do your master any good."  
  
He looks at me disarmingly, and I feel my temper bristle in defiance, this queasy knot rising in my belly. If Faramir thinks this slipshod nonsense will earn him any stretch of forgiveness for what he and his men did to Frodo, then he's got a thing or two to learn about hobbits. Continuing to hold my glance, a sigh eventually shakes loose from my chest. I hate to admit it, but he's right about the rain-the air is turning heavy and thick, and there's a towering bank of black, angry-looking clouds moving in from the southwest. I don't fancy a soaking, and it'd be especially taxing for Mr. Frodo. "No, it wouldn't do," I agree at last.  
  
Faramir bends low. "Let me take him."  
  
Grudgingly, I release my master to his care. Frodo's lashes quiver, blinking open to reveal a pair of sleep-dazed eyes. He recoils from the unfamiliar touch, hunching about himself and making a ragged sound, his sudden breath catching fearfully. "There ain't no cause for alarm," I assure him hastily, tucking the cloak in so he won't catch a chill. "It's just me. The Captain 'ere is goin' to carry ya awhile, so ya can save yer strength." His look stays confounded, and I don't know why I go and say what I do, but the words are out afore I can call them back. "Like Strider, it'll be like Strider. You can trust 'im to well tend ya."  
  
Those striking eyes of his study me for another long moment, until he expresses a watery sigh and folds against the Captain's chest, crushing the cloak to his shoulders and balling his fist under his chin. Elbereth protect us, I hope I ain't just told him a lie.  
  
*************************************************************  
  
We wind out way through the forest. The thick groves of conifers start to thin considerably as our path turns ever steeper, the faint gurgle of running water growing louder and louder with every step we take. Soon, I've fallen behind again, unable to match the urgent pace of these Rangers. Hands on knees, I stoop to catch my breath, hanging my head and wheezing like a fat, old sow. My legs weren't cut out for such straining demand. Neither are Mr. Frodo's, for that matter. I'd hate to think what daunting trial he'd be enduring, had Faramir not carried him.  
  
Several strides ahead of me, the Captain has stopped, and though he stands alone, I know his men are close at hand. We've walked in silence thus far, he's not let one whit slip about Boromir. I can see in his eyes the subject ain't put off, merely postponed. I stay keeled over, trying to ease the maddening stiffness lodged in my spine. Shifting my pack so it doesn't pull on my neck, the stitch in my side is just about gone when I straighten. There's a sudden gust of wind that stings my face, and it sets fallen leaves to swirling around my feet in a frenzy, kicking up dust and making me sneeze fitfully. I stumble, turning a bit. And spot the glint of bulbous eyes sneaking a look at me from behind a tree trunk not fifty feet from where I stand.  
  
I gulp, blinking in shock. Gollum! I'd almost forgotten that corky rascal in all the uproar, but here he is, still in pursuit and avoiding the Rangers to boot. He's much too clever and slippery for his own good, and I'd like nothing better than to set that Damrod loose on him, insomuch as he deserves. But it would pose too many questions. Questions I don't want asked, much less answered.  
  
By the time I blink again, he's vanished, and I scurry to rejoin Faramir and my master. I sense the man's gaze upon me while I wait for him to continue up the path, only he doesn't seem keen on moving. I eye him, and demand brusquely, "What?!" He merely cocks an eyebrow, a reprimand there's not a doubt. I lower my voice to something a tad more respectful, chewing the inside of my cheek. "How's Mr. Frodo?"  
  
"No longer resting comfortably, I'm afraid." Tree limbs creak and groan under the wind's ferocity, the gale whipping leaves to and fro so that a keening whistle fills the air. A noise eerily echoed by my master's lips. "He seems troubled, whether by the approaching storm or his wounds, I know not."  
  
I glance at the dark line of rain clouds marching our way, doing my best to take no notice of Frodo's mutterings. I can't make them out, but his tone is dismally anxious. "That approaching storm looks to mean trouble to me as well, an' I don't 'ave no pains. Unless you'd count my aching feet." Or aggravation and guilt over Frodo's plight, I think resentfully.  
  
"Master Gamgee." Faramir's usual forbidding quality softens, and I feel my heart trip doubly fast, having seen this before, the man's generosity too often preceding some horrible event which only adds insult to Frodo's already heavy burden. I stare at him nervously, wetting my lips. He kneels, cradling Frodo with careful ease. "I am afraid I must impart a discourtesy upon you and Frodo. You are not allowed to see what path we will now take."  
  
Suspicion runs a cold sweat down my back, and I choke back dread and the bitter taste brought up from a sour stomach. I hate my fear, the unshakable helplessness that grows like a suffocating weed, trampling my resolve into deadened ruin. So I glare balefully at the man, and snort, "What, do ya mean to clout us over the 'ead and sling our senseless bodies over yer shoulder?"  
  
A stunned look passes over Faramir's face, and he frowns. "Nothing so severe. I only mean to cover your eyes, for none outside my company may glimpse the way to our refuge, not even valued friends of Rohan are permitted thusly."  
  
I'm still feeling as cross as a plucked peacock, and goad, "Ya still think we're spies, an' don't trust us." The flicker of anger in his eyes gives me a moment of smug satisfaction.  
  
He sighs, though doesn't raise his voice, other to be heard over the blustering wind. "It is not a matter of trust, it is a matter of principle. However, if you wish to debate further, I shall be happy to oblige. We have traveled nearly two leagues, it is safe to linger if need be." He smiles mirthlessly. "I am accustomed to adverse changes in the climate, as are my men. Have a seat, Samwise, and regale me with your arguments. Perhaps you will sway my mind."  
  
A deafening clap of thunder booms over our heads, scaring the daylights out of me. Plenty loud to make Faramir jump, too. But Frodo's shrill scream scares me more. The long, undulating wail spills out of his open mouth, his voice driven high and thin, underscored by a pain that's as if he's suddenly been skewered right through.  
  
"The clatter of hooves," he gasps, fingers crawling to his left shoulder. "I can hear them, their cries are near, so loud." Frodo's eyes glisten, and he stares unseeing, trapped by the Ring's veil of darkness. "Strider asked me if I was fr-frightened. I was, only not enough.I didn't know! If I had known, I never would have allowed Merry and Pippin to.to." He shudders, lids rolling down tight as a shutter, squeezing tears from the corners of his eyes. "I can't let them take me, Sam. They mustn't find me.if they find me, they will find you all.Gandalf didn't meet us. Why didn't he come, Sam?" His voice is a forlorn whisper. "I am so lost without h-him."  
  
I swallow my own fright, and try to console him. "I know, Mr. Frodo. I know."  
  
"Sam." He stares at me with dull eyes, blueness dampened to a stony gray, almost as dark as those thunderheads above us. I understand after a minute, what's going through his head: Frodo believes he deserves this fate. A scurril harm to flay him raw, because he was the one who decided we should go through the mine. Frodo's blaming himself for Gandalf's death. I knew he felt badly after it happened, we all did, but I never realized how much he'd lumped onto his own shoulders. Even us coming with him is a nagging worry that he's taken on. Looking into his tear-swollen eyes, I see the guilt twisted up inside him, festering, given no release and locked away with the other tainted shadows that blacken his heart and steal his hope.  
  
"Does yer 'ead still ache?"  
  
"Yes, Sam." He sounds desperately weary. Ten minutes of sleep here and there simply ain't enough. I take the water skin and moisten the silky band, pressing it to his forehead. "We'll cover yer eyes for awhile. You won't mind that, will ya, Mr. Frodo?"  
  
His eyes struggle to focus, and I lean in so he can see me better, being that he can't turn his head much on the left. "We're goin' to 'ave ta 'urry, there's a storm brewin'." Even as I say that, the wind picks up and whips my hair against my cheek. Frodo keeps peering at me, his look drawn and puzzled.  
  
There's another thundering rumble, and his eyes go wide. "Rain," he whispers shakily, "is that all it was?" Sighing, he blinks, the furrowed line easing from the bridge of his nose. "I'm sorry, Sam. I can't seem to hold a thought.everything hovers just beyond my reach, and nothing will remain still. I think I know where I am, then it changes, and I think.I think it might have all just been a b-bad dream. But I remember now, and it is worse." Another gasp and a sigh, Frodo looking like a willowy bough strained taut by the blowing gusts. "My sight is blurry, and I am very dizzy. My head is filled with noise, and my shoulder throbs each time I breathe. Also, I feel rather.ill."  
  
I slip the cloth over his eyes, and he mumbles, "That feels very nice, Sam."  
  
"Leave it there, an' I'll pull yer hood down so ya won't get wet. Faramir's carryin' ya, like before." I put my lips to his ear. "An' if ya need to vomit, I'm sure the Captain won't mind."  
  
Frodo doesn't say anything, and Faramir keeps his silence, so I don't think he heard. But my master's mouth twitches, corners curving up to form the slightest of smiles. I pull his hood down to his nose, and cover my own eyes with a scarf given by a man I don't recognize. Strong hands guide my shoulders, and I take tentative steps before I realize I won't fall, and can lift my feet higher. I grin, the image of Frodo's brief smile lingering in my head. It is ample reward for this injustice. Though I don't wish for my master to be sick again, if Frodo has cause to puke on Faramir's jerkin, all the better is what I say.  
  
To Be Continued.  
  
A/N: This chapter was going to be so long, I decided to cut it here. The next may still be Sam's POV, I will have to see how it goes. Ariel, that last bit was inspired by you. Don't know what came over me. Frodo actually smiles, if you can believe that! 


	6. Chapter Six

Judgment Reckoning  
  
Chapter Six  
  
Author: Kidders  
  
Fandom: Lord Of The Rings, The Two Towers  
  
Pairings: None, no slash  
  
Rating: PG-13 for violence and graphic medical description  
  
Genre: Angst, drama, h/c  
  
Disclaimers: See Chapter One  
  
Setting: Movie-verse (mostly), slightly AU, Sam and Frodo may actually reach Henneth Annun soon g  
  
A/N: Shirebound, Claudia, Lily Baggins, Ariel, and everyone else who continues to review and comment, thanks. It's very appreciated, and a nice pick-me-up for when I'm feeling rather ill. That's why I am so late with this chapter. Hope to do better with the next one. And I haven't been online in several days, so I plan to catch up on all the stories I've been following after I post this. So I will be reviewing soon. Claudia, you already know my thoughts on your challenge story, can't wait for more! And LB, your new one is riveting as well. I briefly lurked on FH, but yahoo was giving my computer fits, so I wasn't able to peruse for very long. Like I said, a lot of reading to catch up on. FBOBE, thanks for your positive feedback. Look for food in the next chapter. Lastly, I had many requests for hurling on Faramir, so I tried to oblige. Enjoy!  
  
Chapter Six POV: Faramir  
  
Gloomily does the sky appear every time I lift my glance, clouds racked high and black, a churning squall set poised to overtake us before we reach our western haven. I have quickened our pace in hopes of outrunning the storm, to the point where Mablung now carries the servant, while I bear his enfeebled master. Alas, the short rest of which we partook did not prove to be a restoring cordial for the small one. Sleep and ease do not come to him. Instead, Frodo's free hand remains clenched into a tight fist, his breath hitching wildly whenever I alter direction too abruptly or the ground rises or falls at more than the slightest angle. No other sound passes his lips, though his body is a tense, rigid bundle where hip and shoulder press in reclining shelter to my doublet, and I can see the quiver of his throat mold around every convulsive swallow. I tread carefully with my step, as the path descends steeply.  
  
"Frodo?" He jerks at my voice, chin raising a notch; from what I can see of his face, the sickly cast of his skin is still much evident. "How are your hurts? Do they continue to pain you greatly?"  
  
The pale, chapped lips compress, and there is hesitation before he answers, the words drawn upon a shaky breath. "I am feeling better, thank you for asking."  
  
Such misery imbeds a lasting tension in the small frame, I doubt this is true. It is probably uttered out of a polite desire to placate me. "Frodo, the path we take grows increasingly narrow," I tell him. "I cannot carry you as you are, and pass freely. You must either walk ahead while I guide you, or ride over my shoulder."  
  
The hobbit does not speak immediately. I realize neither choice would appeal to one so ailing. Still, he must be the one to select that which would offer the least hardship. He agonizes a moment longer, then says stiltedly, "I would rather walk, if I am able."  
  
Gingerly, I set him down, folding his hood back so I can tighten the scarf over his eyes. He reels a bit drunkenly, fingers reaching blindly for some steadying perch to cling to, and I am reaching for his hand when a thunderous, clapping boom sends him scuttling in fast retreat. The little one knocks into the cliff wall and emits a garbled noise, half startled, half pained.  
  
Concern urges me forward. "Frodo?"  
  
"It was nothing, I am fine!" he insists fiercely, gulping and swallowing in quick succession. "I do not require any a-assistance."  
  
It is a prideful claim, though a ridiculous one; clearly, the halfling can barely keep his feet. Awareness, seemingly, has rekindled a degree of mistrust within him. Frodo does not wish to place faith to the notion I will steer him veraciously without fault. I indulge this pretense, not wishing to be caught in the canyon during a downpour. "Shall we proceed, then? Storms like these are not to be trifled with."  
  
"Yes, very well." He sighs, nibbling at his lower lip while gathering his wits about him. "I should not like to get wet. And I am still." He stops, and begins shifting from foot to foot. I place my hand on his uninjured shoulder.  
  
"Still what?" I prod gently. The sky replies with another threatening rumble, and I feel him quail as he attempts to slide away from my grasp. "Frodo, be at ease. The distance to our camp is short. Once there, you shall be able to take rest in more hospitable surroundings."  
  
"Rest," he mumbles, a wistful longing in his voice. "If only that were true."  
  
A ripple of ominous portent guiles my mind, and I fight to ignore it, for the hobbit's meaning is unclear. "The refuge is well protected. You and your gardener will be safe there, Frodo. No harm will be done, you have my word."  
  
He frowns at me, muffled eyes crinkling. "It matters not," he whispers, beginning to cant sideways, "regardless of what you would say."  
  
Before he can fall, I quickly grab his arm and right his balance. Despite Frodo's innate stubbornness, I am worried walking may prove beyond the scope of his strength right now. "'Twould not be wise to linger here. We must move on."  
  
A noisy swallow along with a deep inspire of air lends him more sturdiness for speaking. "Sam.where is Sam?"  
  
I spare a glance down the path, a trail carved in narrow span between rising walls of sheer rock. "Mablung manages your servant in safe passage." Prodding his right shoulder, I turn him in the correct direction. "Come, Frodo."  
  
We have gone but halfway when the hobbit plants his feet, and refuses to go another step. "Can you not hear that?" he calls softly. "Water.rushing?"  
  
"We are near the river," I assert.  
  
He turns toward the sound of my voice. "No!" Frodo disclaims. "I have heard the rushing flow of the Anduin for a time. It is not the same. Listen-" His quivering fingers brush the leather fixture of my breastplate. "-can you not hear the cracking? Like twigs underfoot? Not from the river, from up above." He lifts his hand, and points unerringly to the cliff face on our right, a knobby precipice towering in shadowed overhang some eighty feet above our heads.  
  
Stone crumbles from the edge, and the air fills with a strange rumbling not unlike thunder. My heart shudders, shock freezing me in place for a breathless moment before the impending danger stirs me to action. I grab Frodo and throw him over my shoulder so fast, he has not the time to cry out. His gasp close to my ear is lost in the crashing slide of water and rock and mud that spills from the side of the cliff.  
  
"Run!" I shout to the others behind us, sprinting forward. I keep my eyes fixed on the clearing ahead, our only escape. "We must reach the end of the ravine!"  
  
Pebbles sting where they pelt my neck and head, and there is a wet sluice of mud drenching my nape. The roar is terrible now, a deafening clamor deeper than any trumpet conjured by storm or sky; it is as if the very ground has belched forth its anger and seeks to ravel us in a palling tomb of rock and earth. A glancing blow strikes my shoulder, staggering me nearly to my knees. The ground trembles, the air smells foul, filled with a rotten stink of spoiled eggs. That I keep my feet is a wayward stroke of luck, but the path has turned into a slithering sea of mud, my every step mired as in a sinkhole. Through the roar, a scream emerges, shrilled by the laboured hobbit and abruptly silenced before all breath can be expelled. I fear the worst, that Frodo has perished, that we all shall perish, piled like logs in a flotsam barrier. With my last remaining strength, I drag my boots free from muddy suction and feel the welcome grasp of hands guiding me to a safer haven.  
  
Prostrate, I fall to my knees, filling my lungs in desperate swills, and clasping the hand-fast grip of my rescuer: Mablung, whose concern appears twinned by the anxious gardener who hovers at his side. Brown eyes study me fearfully as Sam scoots in front of my lieutenant, and I do not begrudge the gardener's quest to see. The burden I shoulder is of importance to us both.  
  
Wiping mud from my brow, I steady me left hand upon Frodo's back, feeling the panicked flutter of his ribs under my palm. My elbow is locked tight against the legs traversing my side; it cramps when I try to unbend it. Cautiously, I set Frodo on his feet and peer into his face. The scarf hangs loosely about his neck, soggy with mud. Dirt and grime are smeared down one cheekbone, and caked in the stringy, mopped curls. The look in Frodo's eyes is flattened, there is no expression there, no life whatsoever. His only reaction is to tighten the hand that clutches at his neck like a claw.  
  
Something of my alarm must show, because Sam suddenly implores, "Mr. Frodo?" and it is no surprise when the halfling sways and topples into a boneless heap, cheek pressed to my thigh. I speak quickly, over the servant's gasp.  
  
"Frodo, are you injured?" I graze his pale face lightly with my fingertips, and he flinches and chokes, a viscous umber-green fluid spewing from his mouth to soak the front of my trousers. I raise his head so he will not inhale his emesis, aware that each draught for air only seems to presage more violent spasms. He vomits until there is nothing issuing from his mouth but a thin trail of mucous, and still the retching heaves his insides. Soon, his muscles twitch in spent effort, and he moans plaintively. Sam is clucking as a mother hen to a chick, making soft sounds of sympathy. I, for myself, sigh in resignation and continue to support the hobbit's head until the episode has passed.  
  
When at length the halfling's stomach is finally settled, I tap his cheek and speak his name. Frodo blinks sluggishly, stare unfocused and tranced, and I abandon the idea of getting through to him. I scoop him up in my arms, pausing to look down at Sam. "If you will permit, I shall have Mablung carry you, Master Gamgee. We should make haste in departing this place." Frodo moans loudly, tossing his head back, a strained frown tensing his features. It is a familiar expression, and forgetting my earlier impulse, I automatically ask, "Where do you hurt, Frodo? Is it your shoulder?"  
  
Not wholly expecting a reply, I am startled when he murmurs weakly, "No, my back."  
  
Warmth curdles stickily down the front of my trousers, and I grimace, having to force the discomfort from my thoughts. The hobbit's eyes flicker, and his gaze clears somewhat, only his look now conveyed is much distressed under the onslaught of renewed pain. "A stone f-fell, and hit m- me," Frodo ventures haltingly.  
  
Remembering his collapse, a sour dread churns in the pit of my belly, for I have witnessed such crippling wounds in battle. The outcome is rarely good. "Can you feel and move your legs?" I blurt.  
  
His frown deepens, blue eyes narrowing in concentration. A trice later, both feet twitch affirmatively. This defers the most worrisome of my fears, a like relief evidenced by Samwise in the form of a heavily uttered sigh. "Good, Frodo," I say encouragingly. "How is the pain now? Any better?"  
  
Eyes having drifted shut, the hobbit wearily opens them again. "No, 'tis the same."  
  
"Exactly where is the hurt? Along the middle of your back, or the side?"  
  
"My side. Below the ribs."  
  
"Why does that matter?" Sam wonders.  
  
I do not answer, quietly reviewing what little I know of the body and its innards, assuming the small ones are like men in that aspect. There is a tug at my hip; Samwise, becoming more insistent. "Captain, 'ow bad is 'e 'urt?"  
  
How bad indeed? Frodo's wounding could be serious, or it could heal without causing further harm. Time will be the judge, one way or another. "I don't know, Sam," I reply truthfully. "The mid-line of the back is very vulnerable to injury, and does not heal well, if at all. We are fortunate Frodo was not struck there. His side and flank.I think the area is merely bruised, and while painful, should not pose any additional risk."  
  
"Ya don't know fer sure?" Sam exclaims in dismay. I cannot see his face, so take a step back.  
  
"I am not a healer, Master Gamgee." I sigh, drawing in a deep breath; a regrettable action, as the stench is quite unpleasant. "Though for Frodo's benefit, and yours, I wish I were."  
  
To my amazement, the servant actually appears chastised. He quickly lowers his glance, peering at his feet. "Sorry," he mumbles. "Yer bearing reminds me o' Strider. I forget sometimes ya don't 'ave 'is knowledge in tendin' the sick."  
  
Interesting how Sam uses the familiar for the purported heir to the throne of Gondor. If the legends can be believed. My brother did not lean to such tales. "You speak of Lord Aragorn, yet do not call him such?"  
  
Sam's ears redden, and he blushes. "Aye, it's 'ow Frodo an' me first met 'im. 'E kept 'is real identity a secret."  
  
"Ah." More secrets-these hobbits have more mystic layers than elves in a blessed realm. Lightning flashes across the sky, and I feel a sense of disquiet crawl along the back of my neck. The air seems too still, thickened by ominous warning. When thunder claps sound a moment later, it is almost as though the storm calls me by name. Which is preposterous, I am maddened by fatigue. My nerves thrum with nervous energy, and I look to my men. Some are as wet and weary as I, others alert and guarded. It is not safe to linger any longer.  
  
"We do not stop until we reach the Window on the West," I command. To Frodo, I tell, "I know you suffer, but try to keep still. We have not far to go now." His eyes squeeze tighter, and the uneven breath he takes does not escape my notice. "Sam, you will allow Mablung to carry you?"  
  
I phrase it politely, as a question. After giving me a lengthy inspection, he finally nods, fingering the cloth at his neck. "Shall I put this scarf back on?"  
  
"Let your eyes remain shut, do not look until I signal it is time," I bid. "Your word will be your bond."  
  
The servant's mouth falls open, and he stares in surprise. No deriding snub is forthcoming, however. He seems hardly to breathe. I have rendered him speechless. Perhaps hope has not forsaken us after all.  
  
To Be Continued. 


	7. Chapter Seven

Judgment Reckoning  
  
Chapter Seven  
  
Author: Kidders  
  
Fandom: Lord Of The Rings, The Two Towers  
  
Pairings: None, no slash  
  
Genre: Angst, drama, h/c  
  
Disclaimers: See Chapter One  
  
Setting: Movie-verse with a sprinkle of book canon, slightly AU, Sam and Frodo at Henneth Annun  
  
A/N: Shirebound, your wish is granted! Claudia, your words continue to inspire me, thanks for reviewing faithfully. I have trouble dividing my time when not feeling well, so tend to write and spend less time online. I'm loving Bound, can't wait for more! Wish I dared to try two stories at once, the challenge stirred some evil thoughts in my brain, but I won't give in unless stricken by an awful case of writer's block. Otherwise, I might never finish JR, which is turning out way longer than I first anticipated. A Elbereth, I have also been following your challenge piece, as well as Storm, your writing continues to improve wonderfully, I look forward to your updates (Hmm, this sort of sounds familiar, did I review you elsewhere? Yikes, I've lost track). Lily Baggins, I think you're the other challenge story I've read, and you already know how much I enjoy Affliction, which BTW I think chapter seven was the last I saw, hope there's more soon on both! Ariel, glad you liked it. My own style more closely resembles Faramir, so he at times comes easiest to me (the formality-factor of growing up with my dad being a teacher). Fear continues to be a good read, though fickle ff.net is frustrating me to no end. Budgielover, I am honored that you reviewed my story. Your writing is so wonderfully vivid and imaginative, I sometimes can't read your updates while I'm writing, as my offerings are woefully short of the creative punch your tales wield. Trishette, patience my dear. Thanks for giving a kick in the behind, however. At times I move at a snail's pace.  
  
Most Honorable Mention: Frodo Baggins of Bag End, thank you so much for imparting your knowledge of sick hobbits and dining in Middle Earth. I hope to put your tidbits to good use! And hugs and slaps on the back for keeping the Frodo Healers site up and running, I've really enjoyed being a part of it.  
  
Chapter Seven POV: Sam  
  
The roar of falling water has grown to a noisy bellow by the time the Captain calls us to a halt. True to my word, I haven't taken so much as a peep at where we are headed, even now when I can feel the drizzle of tiny splashes wetting down my nose and cheeks. Keeping my lids firmly shut, I wait for Faramir to signal we've reached his camp. Thank goodness I don't have to wait long. For myself, I'm right as rain, but I worry for Mr. Frodo-he's still in such a state, and needs proper rest, though I've barely heard a whimper from him since we started up after that nasty mudslide.  
  
"Put him down," Faramir booms, in a voice that seems to echo strangely above my head, "so he may look."  
  
Mablung sets me down, and I open my eyes, blinking in the dimness 'til my sight adjusts. Stone laid smooth as a polished line of oak runs beneath my soles; I'm standing on a ledge that juts out to one of the biggest surges of water I ever did see, and that's saying a lot. I liken it to some of those waterfalls in Rivendell, and though I only glimpse it from behind, the sight must indeed be something to behold from the ground below.  
  
"These falls are the fairest in all of Ithilien," Faramir quotes solemnly, beckoning me to follow him through a wide opening in the rock wall. "Sanctuary and beauty regaled into a single wonder. Welcome to our refuge, Samwise Gamgee and Frodo Baggins. Here, you shall find rest, food, and a soft mattress to coddle your bones."  
  
"What.what can you see, Sam?"  
  
"My master's voice is wearied nearly to the point of despair. He's so weak, he can't even lift his head off the Captain's shoulder. Worry gnaws at me, 'tis the same wrenching twist in my gut that's been there since Frodo was first hurt. And now he's hurt worse. I swallow my doubt, but it's a bitter lump, and every time is harder to stomach. "'Tis a fair sight, no question, Mr. Frodo," I say. "Much fairer from below, I'd wager, but 'ere the water's flowin' over the mouth o' the cave in great, big splashes, like runnels o' woven sun bringin' out a spring blossom."  
  
"'Twas the same when I woke in Lord Elrond's house. I'm sure I shall see it later," Frodo murmurs, then he lapses into a quiet spell. He'd say more, I think, only he can't with hurts-ferocious and dogging as those Black Riders-panging him so.  
  
Men are bustling about on either side of us, engaged in setting out provisions and muttering in lowered voices, to which I pay little attention. I concentrate on dogging the Captain's steps, the flickering glow of torches flooding our path with more and more light. I'm also trying to watch the direction we take, to tell the way out, only the sparkly walls and maze of tunneled passages makes my head start to spin.  
  
By the time Faramir eases my master onto a small cot near the back of the cave, Frodo's fingers are digging into my arm almost rough enough to make me yelp. I feel a stab of guilt go right through my heart, for I've naught reason to complain. When I see a touch of pity graze the Captain's eyes, I figure he means to make me feel better. But it doesn't. Nothing can do that now, not 'til the Ring's been dealt with.  
  
"I shall have a tub of water brought to you," promises Faramir, "as well as food and drink. Rest awhile. We will speak later." There's an intense gleam to his look as he speaks that last, 'tis unsettling. I know for certain I'll not be liking such talk. The Captain disappears 'round a corner to join a smattering of his men where they were stripping down packs of supplies and making up tables. A sort of frenzied purpose hangs in the air, one I'm gladly parted from, as blessed quiet's what we need.  
  
I kneel beside the cot. A drape of coarsened wool covers the threadbare mattress, and it's low to the ground, awkward for a man but just right for a hobbit. Frodo's lying bended in a hump at the center, knees drawn up as far as he can manage. "So 'ow are ya feelin' really, Mr. Frodo? Tell me straight, 'tis only us, an' ya don't 'ave ta pretend with yer Sam."  
  
Pain twitches over his face, allowing a trickle of tears to cut a clean swatch through the dirt stamped on his cheeks. "My back is throbbing incessantly, Sam. As if a blade pierced the skin beneath my ribs."  
  
"We'll get ya settled right proper," I vow. "Soon as they bring us that basin ta wash up with."  
  
"The pain will not let me rest, Sam, even should I fervently wish it. My head aches, my shoulder feels brutally wrung." Frodo's voice is scant above a whisper, and his lids are starting to droop, though it don't disguise how he's grimacing. "And I've quite a horrid taste in my mouth."  
  
"That I can fix!" I exclaim, tugging the water skin from my waist. Gently raising my master's head, I bring the rim to his lips. Frodo chokes down a few mouthfuls, pausing in between to draw some harsh breaths. Even seeing how his eyes are stained milky with tears, I can't miss the grateful shine they make. "An improvement ta be sure, wasn't it, Mr. Frodo?"  
  
"Yes, th-thank you." He winces, and his lost sigh doesn't compare to the defeat drawn haggard across his face. "I'm sorry to be such a b-burden, Sam. To have dragged you so far from h-home."  
  
"No!" I interrupt firmly, "don't you be thinkin' like that! I'm glad ta do it, an' if I could take yer 'urts upon myself, I would."  
  
"As much as they pain me, I would not wish them on anyone, least of all you." He starts to sigh again, then gathers a sudden stir of air, blinking away what's left of his tears. "Sam, what are we going to d-do? How will we ever prevent Faramir learning of the real reason for our quest? He is the brother of Boromir." He eyes me fearfully, hand clutching for the Ring.  
  
"You let me worry an' dodge those problems," I task gently, stilling his fingers with my own. His skin is cold, caked with mud. "All ya need ta put yer mind to is getting better. I won't steer ya wrong, Mr. Frodo. I promise."  
  
He wheezes fretfully, but at last his fingers let go of the Ring and lace through mine in a quavering spasm. His breath grows more and more ragged, and his eyes slam shut, a tortured gasp pouring from his throat. "My back.it hurts.worse now than my shoulder. What could be w-wrong?"  
  
"Let me 'ave a look," is the bold suggestion that springs from my lips. I figure 'tis better to know what we're facing than not. With his braces tangled about his knees, Frodo's tunic has pulled loose and is bunched in a roll at the waistband of his breeches, sodden all the way through with mud. Leaning in carefully, I edge the hem up and push aside the Mithril a bit to take a peek. The flesh right below his ribs is turned a fierce red where it's not streaked black with grit, and when I trace the mark with the tip of my finger, it feels hot and swollen. There ain't no cut visible, but it's obviously painful. I hardly touch the reddened place, and Frodo cringes, a hoarse whimper of protest escaping out of his mouth before he can halt it.  
  
"Sam?!" Frodo's insistent call startles me out of my stupor, and I gather I've been staring like a bump on a log. "Can you see what was injured? How.how bad is it?"  
  
"'Tis not bleedin'," I cog, striving for the most assured knack I can muster. Pulling back, I clasp at his hand and try to tame its nervous twitch. "There's a mark plainly left by the rock, but no open wound as I can tell."  
  
Frodo's gaze sharpens, and he pelts me with a suspicious look, like he don't believe a word I've said. He snatches his hand away, face twisting into a loathing grimace, the same disfavor he wore every time Strider or Lord Elrond tried to force-feed him some vile concoction. It happens so fast, I ain't able to hide the hurt that courses through my heart. Frodo frowns, watching for a moment before his expression suddenly crumples. Guilt pains his eyes, sends them brimming again. "It's not yer fault," I rally, unable to bear the continued silence. "Maybe the pain will pass soon."  
  
My master bites his lip, good hand raising slightly as if to appeal, only it drops afore he can touch me, and I understand Frodo can't admit to it yet. He can't accept how heavy the Ring's influence has become. "Maybe," he agrees hollowly, closing his eyes.  
  
"I do know one thing to brighten yer mood, an' that's getting ya out o' those wet, muddy clothes." I sense his hesitation, sure as the grass grows, know he's thinking all that fuss will go and make him feel worse. But it's got to be done. "I'll not 'ave ya lyin' 'ere in squalor, Master. Ya can't rest covered as ya are in all this mud and vomit. Ain't good for neither o' us."  
  
Frodo goes to draw in a hurried breath, only it gets caught somehow, comes out in a sputtering cough. He flinches forward, wanting to escape the spasm, except no amount of scrunching smaller gives him any release. I see his face-already blanched white from strain-start to redden, and see the coughing ain't letting him get enough air. Quickly, I sit down alongside and lend him a careful pull, propping his spine against my middle and settling his head under my chin. So as not to jostle him too much, I keep my own breath as shallow as I can make it, wait until the shaking's all but stopped and Frodo's shoulders aren't jerking mightily with every pinched gasp.  
  
Getting my fingers closed on the front of his tunic, I begin to undo the buttons, paying no heed to the tremors in my hands, though it puts me to a test seeing as how each button is soused in mud, and I'm fighting not to be all thumbs. Midway down, I feel Frodo's chest heave, at first I think in pain, then I hear the quiet murmur of words.  
  
"What would your gaffer say if he.could see us now?"  
  
Freeing his arm from the sleeve, I draw off the tunic and his waistcoat. "'E'd be rightly worried about ya, Mr. Frodo. And 'e'd say to mind what folks tell ya 'til yer well again." The sling feels dry, I won't have to disturb it. "I know I ain't Mr. Bilbo or Strider, but I'll give ya my 'onest best, sir, an' that's the truth."  
  
His back trembles in another pained throe, and there's a wet-sounding swallow. "Oh, Sam, I.I do not deserve this," he moans, fretting silently for a tic, then sighing loudly. "You've shown me nothing but kindness, and I've treated you abominably. I am so ashamed of the things I said earlier." Frodo attempts to help me in my task, his fingers working the ties at his waist before they droop and fall limply to his lap.  
  
"That don't matter, Mr. Frodo," I profess. "I know ya didn't mean 'em."  
  
An anguished sob is my reply, rooted deep in blame. "You do not understand. I did mean what I said, every w-word of it, Sam. There is a part of m-me that relishes the anger and the spite and the malice, and I am afraid." His head is hanging lower now, and he don't even notice when I move to kneel and ease the breeches from his ankles. "Afraid it will never, ever diminish."  
  
Frodo crosses his arm protectively over the sling and shivers, sending the links of Mithril to clinking softly. It doesn't seem to be sullied one bit, thank goodness, for I wouldn't want him to go without. I throw the Captain's cloak 'round his shoulders, and huff impatiently, wondering where the promised basins have gotten to. There's no shortage of water, what could possibly be taking so long?  
  
My master lifts his head abruptly, and I'm stricken by the raw emotion simmering in his wide eyes, as blister-hot as that flickering torch sewn into the cave wall behind us. "Even if we do make it all the way to the mountain," Frodo whispers, a bitter edge to his voice, "and I do what Gandalf and the others wanted, what if it is not enough?" His eyes dim, fingers groping at his neck. "What if I can never go back.what if I am already l-lost?"  
  
"Ya can't think like that, not even a notion!" I burst out, yanking his hand away from the false lure sung by the Ring. He doesn't fight me this time when I close my grip about the cold hunk of metal hanging on its chain.  
  
Confusion draws his brows together. "But Gollum-"  
  
"Blast Gollum! That ill-gotten dodger don't possess 'alf o' yer determination, even less o' yer will. Gandalf and Elrond, they appointed you the task 'cause they knew ya could do it! All the way to the end an' back!"  
  
He offers me a sad smile, defeat still trying to cling to his back. "Do you really think so, Sam? It's been so long, I feel as though we shall never get there."  
  
"We will," I insist, letting my voice swell with the claim. There's truth in what I'm saying, since I can believe nothing else. "We'll finish what we started. Our journey's far from over."  
  
"With you, the mug is always half full, isn't it?"  
  
"Brimmin' over, most days," I quip. Frodo grins faintly, but the smile is chased off his face by a grimace of pain. I catch his flailing hand and cradle the fist between my palms. "'Tis yer back, ain't it? 'Twould be scathin' ya again."  
  
"Still as if I'd been pierced by that spear, through and through. It burns, Sam, and will not ease no matter what position I take."  
  
"Is there anything more I can do?" I ask hopefully.  
  
"No-" Frodo's eyes suddenly jump, and he hunches to one side, frantically pulling the cloak tightly 'round himself. "I will not have them see me like this," he pants, knitting the edges of cloth together with a fumbling, one-handed grip.  
  
I crane my neck, and see three men-strangers, no less-bearing two large tubs. They're dressed as Faramir was, but darker in coloring. Turning so my master's hidden behind me, I warily watch them leave the water on the ground near my feet, holding my tongue 'til they're well out of earshot. This sets my jaw to aching, since I couldn't help but notice that their faces hadn't been at all friendly; the glower made me feel more a prisoner than a guest.  
  
Rummaging in my pack, I find a couple of clean rags and dip them in the water. 'Tis cold, I conclude there'll be no chance of a fire here in the cavern. After the cloth's good and soaked, I start wiping down my master's legs. He gives a start when there's a shower of wintry dribbles rolling down his shins. The mud's mainly smeared below his knees, thank goodness, making the cleaning easier. "'Ow about I do the 'ard ta reach places, and you can scrub the rest later? Don't worry, we'll 'ave ya reclinin' in no time."  
  
Frodo merely nods, accepting whatever I say, any sign of previous cheer gone. I could suggest we break into song, and I think he'd agreeably comply. All his strength's being used to fight the pain, so ain't none leftover to bolster his spirits. I finish the back of his legs, take a gander at his feet. They really could use a good washing, and we'll not have another chance like this. Dirt's caked in a thickened crust over his soles, squished in between the toes of one foot. I have to work extra hard at removing it. Frodo endures my efforts without a sound, yet his face is set in a mask of hurt that sees no end, driven to a point of abuse where a body can't take no more.  
  
"Just a little longer," I lull, tugging his right arm from under the cloak and sponging it with quick, easy strokes 'til a stretch of pale skin emerges from beneath the mucky layers of filth. My master's arm seems thinner than usual, and though Mr. Frodo's always been a bit willowy, this is no doubt from the Ring eating away at him, making him lose his appetite.  
  
"Sam, please allow me to lie down," Frodo begs, cradling his head on his upraised palm that's still dripping. "I'm starting to feel quite ill again."  
  
"I'm just about done."  
  
Frodo slowly straightens, the pinched toil shown on his face making it look like his whole body was fettered in chains and that there was a troll stuck sitting on his head. Dirty smudges mar both cheeks, and I rewet the rag and dab them off. Frodo's so bone-tired, he don't even blink at the approach of my hand.  
  
"Sam, I really need to lie down!" he declares, the loudest noise he's made in awhile.  
  
"All's I got left ta do is yer 'air, then you'll be clean from top to bottom." I guide his head to the blanket, gently raise his knees up.  
  
"Surely it can wait." He shuts his eyes, clearly not convinced.  
  
"Think o' 'ow much better you'll sleep if yer scalp is as clean as the rest o' ya."  
  
One lid slits open, and I see a flash of blue. Frodo sighs, and it's pained and very weary, but agreeable. "Do as you will," he says resignedly. "I have not the strength to argue."  
  
"Right, then." I'm trying to figure out how to hold my master without hurting him, and sit down beside his head, leaning to retrieve my cloth, when the bottom of the cot suddenly pops up into the air. Frodo's and my end sinks to the ground with a thud, spilling me sideways and flattening my poor master onto his back.  
  
"What are you doing?!" Frodo gasps crossly, fingers winding into the hem of my pant leg, either for leverage or displeasure over my clumsiness, I ain't sure which. I scramble to my feet, and the cot rights itself with a bang. Frodo moans, rolling on his side, and I feel wretched at the jolt I've caused.  
  
"Ya need ta swing yer head around so yer feet are pointin' the other way," I tell him. That prompts a furious glare in my direction, but I don't budge an inch. I stand where I am and keep staring, 'til Frodo finally blinks and nods ever so slightly. Helping him get situated takes patience and goading on my part, and when he's finally settled back on his right side and facing the wall, I breathe a sigh of relief.  
  
I take the soaked rag and squeeze out the water so it washes over his crown, and trails onto the pillowed cloak propped under his ear. He gasps and stiffens, hand catching on my shirt. "What's wrong?" I bend to study him anxiously, sure I've gone and caused trouble where I didn't mean to. My master's eyes are open, and about as welcoming as a spitting-mad Orc.  
  
"It is.fr-freezing!" Frodo hisses, teeth grinding together to smother another gasp. My fingers have been numb for a while now, and I'd just plain forgot about the early-spring chill to the water. He hadn't complained much before, must be the extra shock cold proves to a tender scalp that's got him riled.  
  
"Sorry, I'll be as quick as I can, Mr. Frodo." Supporting his neck with my hand, I gently loosen the web of clots and dirt that are caked in the twisted strands of his curls. The dried blood is the worst, it don't want to dissolve so easy. The slab of soap Faramir's men provided is so harsh, I only use a little to get the suds to come up, feeling my way down along each curl, getting spots unraveled so I can flick the soiled gobs into the basin. When my fingertips brush a crusty scab near the back of his head, I'm mindful to take extra care and not disturb it too much, as it ain't ready to come off. Strangely, Frodo don't stir when I lightly skim the area; his breathing's gone soft and his eyes are almost shut. If I didn't know better, I'd say he was asleep.  
  
"Mr. Frodo?"  
  
He barely reacts. "Hmmm?"  
  
"I 'ave ta do another rinse, then it's finished."  
  
"Yes, fine, go ahead," he murmurs, the pain nearly gone from his voice.  
  
Good gracious, how's he gotten from piping mad to being dull in the senses in such a short period? And without any decoction from Strider. 'Tis a stroke of fortune, and I don't want to rock the boat now that I've got everything in balance. Which means no icy insult to my master's poor head. I'll use what's left in my water skin, since I doubt there'll be any trouble refilling it here. I pour the lukewarm liquid all over his hair, glad when it rinses mostly clear. Frodo's lids flutter, only his eyes stay a bit unfocused. Not for long. Suddenly, they widen and fill with a growing urgency.  
  
"Sam, I must.I need to." He frowns deeply, tipping his head up to look at me, squirming and sliding his palm between his knees. "Do you see any sign of a chamber pot nearby? Or anything smaller I might use?"  
  
My own eyes widen in understanding. "Aye, I'll check." Casting my gaze to the ground, I crouch and search the area 'round the cot. There's crates, some barrels, my pack.and an enormous black pot. Good grief, it's wide enough for us both to sit on. I heft the cast-iron chamber for my master to see, shrug my shoulders helplessly. "The only other thing we got is my cooking pans," I lament. He looks as disturbed by that prospect as I feel, and elbows himself up, extending his hand with a sigh. "All right, I suppose it will have to suffice."  
  
When his fingers have a purchase, I let go, and the big, unruly monster crashes to the cave floor with a resounding clang. Frodo looks stunned, then mortified. "It is too heavy, I cannot lift it with one hand," he whispers. His breathing's sped up, he's getting more and more upset by this.  
  
"'Ow about I 'old it?" I suggest, knowing he'll not like it, but I can think of nothing else, and judging from his expression, we can't wait much longer. Frodo gives me a haggard look through narrowed eyes, and I say, "You've been through this before, when ya was sick and the Lord Elrond an' 'is staff tended ya."  
  
"It is not the same!" he growls, fist doubled in the Mithril skirt and tugging fitfully. "I do not wish for you to see!"  
  
"I'll shut my eyes." I kneel and hold the pot at chest level, leaving him room to stand. "Just pretend I ain't 'ere."  
  
"Where else would you be?" he sniffs. I hear his feet brush the ground, and the clink of chain-mail as he adjusts it. The cot squeaks when he gets up, and I notice the falter in his breath and the soft whimper he can't quite muffle. Moving still hurts him something fierce. "Where would I be without you," he says, so quiet I nearly don't recognize his voice.  
  
The pot's getting a mite heavy, but I don't mention it. "We'd both be sittin' down ta supper about now, you in Bag End, an' me at my mum's table, 'til she sends me off ta fetch ya an' bring ya to share our feast. Mum always serves too much, ya know, an' she insists ya ain't been eatin' proper since Bilbo left. After stuffin' ourselves to the point of burstin', we'd 'ave a smoke, then 'ead to the Green Dragon for a spot o' ale."  
  
"Sam, that all sounds wonderful, but I don't think I can do this."  
  
Having been in this same situation on the snowy mountain, I know 'tis bound to get worse before getting better. "Do ya really 'ave a choice?" I say sternly, trying to sound like Strider. He could always seem to coax my master into doing things for his own good that he hadn't taken a liking to. Frodo can outmatch nearly anyone in sheer stubbornness, except he'd met his equal in Aragorn. "No one's watchin', are they?"  
  
I hear my master mutter in a low tone, then he hiccups, and sighs blissfully. I hear a slow but steady tinkle hit the bottom of the vessel. Only it stops sooner than I figure for, and I hear Frodo inhale sharply. "Sam." His voice is strangled and decidedly more shrill. ".look."  
  
Wondering what in the Gods could be wrong now, I do as I'm told: I tilt the pot and peer into it. "Uh, I can't see much, if ya follow me, Mr. Frodo. Not 'cept what's supposed ta be there."  
  
Frodo groans, and I gaze up at him, puzzled. He's dropped the corslet, and has his fist bunched to his chest, and his eyes are wide and scared. "Look closer," he instructs harshly.  
  
I do, tipping the pot so it catches a glistening flicker from the torch. I stare hard, trying to decide what it is I'm seeing. Something ain't right, to be sure. "It's a bit." I swallow. ".cloudy?"  
  
"It is blood," he states hopelessly.  
  
"Blood?" I gasp, eyeing him while fear runs a tight band around my belly. "But.but where did it come from?"  
  
Frodo looks at me, utterly spent and on the verge of collapse. "From inside me.when I passed my water."  
  
The scrape of a boot prickles my sense of alarm, and I hear from behind: "What goes on here? I would have thought my guests would be fast asleep."  
  
Frodo and I jump like we've been stung by a hoard of angry wasps. I whirl, clutching the bucket as if it's a barrel of my own private brew. My master don't get off so easy-Frodo's knees buckle, and he plops down on the edge of the cot with a startled oof.  
  
Faramir strides from the shadows. The Captain regards my master with narrowed eyes, then raises that questioning gaze to snare me in its grip. "Gentlemen, is there a problem?"  
  
To Be Continued.  
  
A/N: Yeah, it's finished! I am not as good at this stuff, Shirebound you're much better than I. Hope it's at least mildly entertaining. Angst will return in force in the next chapter. 


	8. Chapter Eight

Judgment Reckoning  
  
Chapter Eight  
  
Author: Kidders  
  
Fandom: Lord Of The Rings, The Two Towers  
  
Pairings: None, no slash  
  
Genre: Angst, drama, h/c  
  
Disclaimers: See Chapter One  
  
Setting: Movie-verse, remember it's AU also, I'm going to diverge a bit more from book canon, switch some things a bit. Though my boo-boo last chapter had nothing to do with intention. I simply have only read the books once, and failed to realize that Sam's mother died before Bilbo left the Shire. Oops, my goof. But things that happen later will mostly be by my own design.  
  
A/N: A Elbereth, hope I can continue to turn up the heat , thanks for your reviews. Shirebound, glad you liked it. Though I was a bit misunderstood by a comment in my last a/n, I meant that you are so much better at comfort than I. Can't seem to get away from the angst, so more is on the way. Brace yourself! Ancalime, spot on for the injury call, of course I'll have to stop short of making the wound fatal for poor Frodo. Enjoy, and thanks! Elwen, lovethosehobbits, kay, Trishette, Tawny, thanks for dropping in and leaving reviews, I always love feedback, glad you're enjoying this tale so far. LilyBaggins, sorry my last chapter didn't feel as smoothly flowing for you as previous. Strangely, the comment about Sam's speech being too rustic, I had the opposite complaint on an earlier chapter. It's a balancing act to be sure on this subject, and looking back, I kept in form and didn't change grammatically how I wrote it, but I think it was more noticeable since there was so much more spoken dialogue in chapter seven. The only thing I might do is if there are too many "to's or and's or you's" in one sentence, not to change them all. Ultimately, I guess I have to be true to my own style, though I certainly don't wish to lose you as a reader. Perhaps this chapter will be easier on the eyes, as it's Faramir's pov. Ariel, it's always great to hear from you. I value your comments, and yes, I completely didn't know that Bell Gamgee was dead before Bilbo departed, I could swear in other fics I've read she was alive. I'm just now starting to re-read FOTR, so I'll keep a sharp eye for any mention of it. Or anything else that blew past me during the first read. I look forward to your reviews! Lastly, QTPie-2488 and Budgielover, I absolutely love hearing from you! Don't know about comfort this time around, we'll see. Sorry it took so long. Real life has again intruded on my muses.  
  
Chapter Eight POV: Faramir  
  
"Gentlemen, is there a problem?"  
  
Sam jerks and whirls to face me, a chamber pot clutched in his arms. Strangely, he looks as if I've caught him in some crime, a notion I dismiss as preoccupation until I glimpse Frodo. Having a bath seems not to have fared the small one much improvement. Pain still erects a burdenous cage around the hobbit, preventing any ease of his suffering. Frodo's face, though now clean, remains a peaked white, hair soaked and hanging in a beveled curtain over dilated eyes which strain to follow as I step forward. He draws his cloak about him like a shield, shins laid bare as he presses his knees together.  
  
I stop short when the servant places himself in my path. Sam's gaze sweeps to meet my own, pleading yet evasive, and I find my voice softens in response. "Master Gamgee?" The jordan is an absurdly awkward bundle in his outstretched arms, but when I try to take it he hastily steps back, nearly tripping over his master's feet. "Something troubles you?" I inquire, lifting my tone in question. A rhetorical one, certainly, given his quickened breathing and the stricken glaze which pools fearfully in his eyes.  
  
"No, no trouble," he stammers, eyes darting left and right, finally sinking in woeful acceptance to regard the carried receptacle. "Mr. Frodo an' I were just getting cleaned up." He refuses to look at me, and at first I dismiss his unease as embarrassment, offering, "If you wish, I can have one of my men dispose of the contents, there is an area at the back of the cave we use for this purpose. I will show you later. For now, let me share in your duty. There is no shame in it."  
  
The nervous flit returns to his glance. "It ain't that."  
  
"Samwise, there is obviously some difficultly wearing at your conscience. Allow me to help." An even temperament is not a gift I always praise, though here I suspect it will serve me well. "Whatever the problem, if I am able to bring you aid, I shall do so."  
  
Indecision lingers on his face a moment, is quelled by an interim of frightened dismay. The fact is, I don't believe I've ever seen him this grim, even in the forest, and my own misgiving runs amok, twisting deep in my belly like the sharp, deadly impale of a dagger. "What is it, Sam?"  
  
"It's my master.somethin' ain't right with 'im, Captain." He shifts his weight, fingers whitening where they clutch the edge of the pot. Words tumble out in a jittery rush. "I ain't seen nothin' like it before, I don't know what ta do," he finishes helplessly. "'E's bleedin' somewhere inside." Angling the pot so I may view its contents, the servant pleads, "How can we 'elp 'im, sir?"  
  
I do not require my eyes to surmise the problem. The faint slosh of liquid and the pungently bitter tang assaulting my nostrils are telling enough. Quickly, I take the jordan and set it aside, sliding past Sam to kneel in front of the cot. Frodo's head is downcast, his small fist nearly enveloped by the green cloak clinging to his shoulder. His upper body rocks in a ceaseless rhythm, breaths mountant in shallow quickness. 'Tis another exacting measure of what he endures. Dourly, I wonder if I shall ever be able to witness the glow of health in his cheeks.  
  
"Frodo?"  
  
The injured hobbit does not immediately react, so I call louder, settling into the commanding tone I use with my men. "Frodo, your wound may be graver than we first reckoned. We must tend to this new injury without delay." I don't know whether my appeal is convincing, or some other impetus draws Frodo's attention, but at last the frenetic movement halts, and the halfling drags a leaden gaze upward. The hurt he suffers is palpable: deeply hued circles, more black than blue, sink beneath his lids as if branded there, face still as alabaster-white as nigh when I left them. The hobbit's skin sheens like he is gripped in a feverish sweat, an assumption proven false when I brush his forehead with the back of my hand. I find his brow is actually quite cool, an omen to lend an unpropitious dint upon the future well being of this little one.  
  
"I cannot linger here," Frodo laments, "the journey shan't be delayed. I must try.I gave my vow."  
  
"Travel in your condition is out of the question." Options dwindling, I am left with only one solution. "You would likely hemorrhage, it would serve no purpose but to convey your untimely death." He frowns at me, uncomprehending, and I am inspired by a brief glimpse of a faint pattern, something vaguely recalled from childhood, a knowledge of this ailment and what must be done to see it healed, if only I am in time. "Frodo, lie back," I direct, flattening my palm on his forehead and applying gentle but firm pressure. "Sam, get his legs. Use your pack, put it as a bolster under your master's knees."  
  
The gardener acknowledges my request with a wide-eyed blink, scurrying to comply. Thus far, the halfling has docilely accepted my touch, but the instant his back in pressed into the mattress, Frodo arches into a rigid bow, his right hand flying to mine, seeking to dislodge it. "Frodo, you must lie still!"  
  
"N-no!" The grinding pain has harrowed him beyond thought, englutted his mind until only the most basic of wants can emerge. His voice shrills, a sobbing panic girding his chest so his fist weakly pelts my arm. "No, you w-wish me t-to f-fail!"  
  
"I thought ya said 'e'd be all right!" shouts Sam, arms thrown around his master's dangling feet to keep them from kicking.  
  
"He's bleeding from within, Sam!" My fingers thread across the little one's wrist, and I feel a racing thump fluttering unchecked beneath my thumb, twice the rate of my own rising pulse. The halfling's ribs strain under the Mithril like my mount's withers after a tolling gallop. "Moving the muscles encourages the blood to pump faster. You must keep still, Frodo. Try to breathe easier. It is the only way."  
  
Vision dulled by tears which do not fall, the hobbit retreats further into himself. "I am a." He moans, head tensed against my hold so I can see the corded knots of sinew bulging beneath the flesh of his neck. "I am alone in the dark."  
  
The despondent tone-moreabove, the words themselves-rents a dire chill into my bones. I brush the half-sodden bangs off his brow. "Frodo Baggins, you must hear me! You are losing much blood, inside where it is out of our reach to easily halt. If it does not stop, it will kill you in a matter of hours. But there is a chance, if you remain absolutely quiet, your body might be able to heal itself."  
  
"Hope.remains?" The furrowed line between his brows diminishes slightly, and his respirations quiver, draining his voice to a mere whisper. "So they t-told me in Lorien. Here, I have not m-much hope l- left."  
  
"Quite untrue, Master Baggins. Who bestowed upon you the Mithril coat?"  
  
Blue eyes, already awash in tears, flutter weakly, distilling briny droplets down his cheek. "Bilbo," Frodo murmurs. A sliver of warmth shines past his tumid lids, coaxing forth a brief, luminous glow. Obviously, Bilbo is a treasured friend or relative. "He wished for you to have it, Frodo. To protect you and keep you safe, so you could survive." I glance to the fallen cloak, repositioned over his elevated legs. "Can you feel Sam's hand? Your servant has remained faithfully at your side, through many dangers. He still holds firm, set to accompany you no matter what path awaits."  
  
The gardener, after a startled blanch, nods fierce agreement. "I'm right 'ere, Mr. Frodo. You can beat this, make no mistake. We've come too far ta give up now."  
  
"It hurts," Frodo cries softly, the agitated struggle gradually slackening from his limbs, though tension continues to cloister every utterance. "Cold.so cold.and I am so t-tired.tired of running. The burden grows heavier."  
  
"You must believe it will get better," I argue, feeling a surge of guilt at his plight. Would the halfling be in his current predicament, I ask myself, fighting the constant toil of injury had I not detained he and his servant? "Frodo, I have not the wisdom of Gandalf, nor the healing skill of your friend Strider, surely not the heart nor valor of my brother." The bitter sting of Boromir's loss abrades like an open wound, forcing me to swallow in order to recapture my voice. "I am here, nonetheless. The battle is not lost. I will do everything in my power to see that you recover fully. My word as a gentleman."  
  
A shudder pinses the slender frame, and his face blanks. "That shoulder will never fully heal.Ash nazg.Ash nazg durbatuluk." Frodo's eyes do not blink, his gaze once more fixed on a place only he can see.  
  
The words, strange and unfamiliar, stir a perilous unease in thoughts already troubled, and I rub my bandaged thumb, wondering at their meaning. I force aside my doubt, and say "Do you trust me, Frodo?"  
  
The tip of his tongue passes over dry, trembling lips, and Frodo frowns deeply. "I am supposed to trust m-myself, my own s-strength, Gandalf said so. He did not tell me what it would b-be like.how I would w- want it so b-badly.and I am bound not to speak of it."  
  
"Speak of what?" Bare-gnawn fingers scrape at the smooth, delicate expanse of skin at his throat. It is a familiar gesture the hobbit makes when distressed, however the significance continues to elude me.  
  
"N-nothing." His motion turns more and more frantic, and I am gladdened the hobbit has bitten his nails to the nub, for surely otherwise the young one's hand would tear away flesh instead of merely leaving a sanguine rash staining his Adam's apple. "My thoughts are fracted, they are not my own. I wish only to s-sleep, but the night whispers, it c-calls to me, and I cannot shut it o-out." Frodo's eyes roll from side to side. Wide and terrified, they seek out his companion. "Sam, I am not s-strong enough, I cannot do this. I must have it b-back, I was meant to have it! I know I gave it u-up, but I am so dreadfully c-cold, everything will b-be alright if I can just p-put it o-on."  
  
The servant slides a worrying look in my direction. "Mr. Frodo, yer not yourself. You got to stay quiet, mind what the Captain tells ya. 'E wants ya to get well. Truly!"  
  
"You are wrong, Sam. He would gladly see me dead."  
  
Behind the appeared languishment, a bristle of fell purpose deepens the halfling's voice. It gives me pause, to see past the moisture-laden eyes and pain-locked brow, and herald the conclusion this is more than bleeding and sickness, the hard-favoured complexion is a consequence of a different sort of battle. Against what, I know not, though a heady suspicion begins to lure my thoughts astray, steeping a fretten nag in the back of my mind. These hobbits, there is more to their journey than is being told. This 'it' Frodo speaks of could either be a valued family heirloom, or perhaps a weapon. Something to foster strength and comfort.'twould have to be small.  
  
"The cold, it burns so," rankles the hobbit, sinking his teeth into that fleckled lower lip. "Grey and empty.there is an ache shot deep into my bones, I dare not move lest they break. 'Tis mine to keep secret, keep safe. I cannot bear it, Sam, please! The Shire is fading.lost."  
  
"That ain't true, Mr. Frodo!" The gardener presses forward, maneuvering for a better position. "The Shire's all we got ta hold onto. 'Tis the reason we came 'ere in the first place. You got ta keep fightin', that's all there is to it.'  
  
Injury and pain finally quarter the last stand of Frodo's resistance, leaving him worn and loose-limbed, but himself once more. He recoils just enough to part my touch from his forehead, gazing past me with grief-dulled eyes. "You do not understand, he has taken it from me.my home.taken t-them all." Frodo's voice trembles, syllables scotching around a sudden heave. "Merry and Pippin, Gandalf, Aragorn and the others, they are gone."  
  
Sam's lungs seem to suspend their labor, and for a moment, I can't tell who's the most wan. "Nay, Frodo, they can't be dead! Strider would've watched out for 'em. I know losin' Gandalf was a terrible grief, but it would be a dratted shame to go believin' such dreadful news when it ain't what really 'appened!"  
  
"They are dead to me, Sam, I can't see them anymore." Forlorn disturbance chips at the claim, and I realize he is losing heart.  
  
"Frodo, you need to conserve your strength," I caution. "Lay quietly and rest."  
  
A firm headshake of denial, and the hobbit is talking again. Silly of me to think he would listen, 'tis good perhaps his stubborn pride is riled by my suggestion. "Even Bilbo." He gasps, brow knit into a line of turmoiled agony. "Like Mama and Papa, I can't see their faces any longer. Right after they l-left me-"  
  
"Mr. Frodo, don't," Sam breaks in. "Ya don't 'ave to explain."  
  
"After they were gone, I could still close my eyes and see them. When I went to s-sleep, I could hear the echo of my mama whispering a good night. It was a comfort, but as the years passed, I began not to remember what she and Papa sounded like, and soon after I lost their faces too." A sigh parts his lips, freeing a sob. "Only by looking at their likenesses could I truly recollect. Now, when I try to think of my cousins, I see n- nothing.my memories are g-gone, Sam. I am alone, a-adrift in the d-dark." The halfling shivers violently. "Only you can make it stop, can make me w- whole again."  
  
Faramir. The whispery hiss of my name tingles along every hair on my nape, and I find the sudden urge to speak overwhelming. "Frodo, what is it? What do you seek?"  
  
"Mine," Frodo chokes, "my pr-precious."  
  
"Mr. Frodo, no! Ya can't tell 'im of the Ring, we'll not be able ta- " I hear the gardener suck in a strained breath. "Oh, no! Valar watch over us, what 'ave I done?"  
  
My sight has gone dark at the edges. The Ring. Isildur's Bane. The thing my brother sought in Rivendell, the thing he died for. Here I have two halflings, and the Ring of Power within my grasp. A weapon for Gondor to strike against the enemy. I lick my lips, and demand hoarsely, "Where is it?"  
  
To Be Continued. 


	9. Chapter Nine

Judgment Reckoning  
  
Chapter Nine  
  
Author: Kidders  
  
Fandom: Lord Of The Rings, The Two Towers  
  
Pairings: None, no slash  
  
Genre: Angst, drama, h/c  
  
Disclaimers: See Chapter One  
  
Setting: Movie-verse mostly, AU, so anything goes  
  
A/N: Thank you all for your kind reviews, everyone who continues to write in. Know that lately, due to real life issues and the stress of dealing with a chronic illness, my free time has been limited. I have devoted most of it to writing, so my great apologies for not sending reviews of late. Actually, the rare occasions I decided to go online and catch up, ff.net was always giving me a 'too busy' message. Very annoying, I do wish the problem to be fixed soon. As for JR, a few people felt the story was getting a bit slow and dragging (the curse of writing a long tale), so I hope last chapter picked up the pace. Hope this one won't be too boring, as I am actually going to try to do some comfort here. It'll be tenuous at best, as comfort is not my forte, but some people have requested it and I felt the story needed just a pinch. Also, rhyming song is not one of my talents either, but I gave it a shot. If this is a slow and easy coast, be warned, there are troubled waters ahead in the next chapter. Enjoy!  
  
Chapter Nine POV: Sam  
  
My master's in a dismal peck of trouble, and I wish flat out I was a crafty wizard or a healer like Strider so I'd be able to help him proper. Here Frodo's taken to dwelling upon things that should rightly stay tucked away in memory, and forgetting the gist of what's important. He ain't to blame, of course-it's the work of that vile trinket creased 'round his neck. Only it's nestled in my pocket, see? I don't know how my master managed it, but when Faramir snuck up on us, Frodo must've been more scared the Ring'd be discovered, for he yanked it off its chain and slid it into my breeches, so sly the Captain didn't notice.  
  
The battered toll it takes is more than miserable enough, leaving him with a pining to hold it again, so bad Frodo aches with the pain of it. His precious. Precious nuisance, more like. What happens next is wholly my own fault. My Gaffer always told me I had a fool's knack for blabbing when I shouldn't, and what a sorry sight I must be, proving him right. With Faramir staring down my master like he's figured out our riddle, I go and blurt, "Mr. Frodo, no! Ya can't tell 'im of the Ring-" I feel my face flame, a guilty heat scouring blame. "Valar watch over us, what 'ave I done?" I cry. For I've gone and laid our secret bare with a shameful slip of my tongue.  
  
Frodo's eyes go wide as saucers, and the Captain. When I look 'round, Faramir's eyes gleam intently under the dim light of the torch, part of his face hidden by shadow, and making him seem as sinister as those Orcs who surrounded us in Moria. I gulp, unable to look away.  
  
"Where is is?" he demands hoarsely, not sounding himself one bit.  
  
"Oh dear! Ya can't blame Frodo, Sir. Not when I'm the ninny causin' the problem," I yammer, desperate to undo my blunder. He won't take the Ring, surely? He'll want it, just like his brother, but he can't take it, not with Frodo so o'erworn and haggard. My master couldn't bear to lose it now.  
  
"A host of men at my call," murmurs the Captain, stepping so close I could reach and touch him, not that I want to. "And two halflings caught in the wild. A chance for Faramir, Captain of Gondor, to show his quality. Where is it? Where is this Ring?"  
  
"It's mine," Frodo whimpers, "given to me. Only my own."  
  
"Frodo does not carry it," Faramir whispers, in such a quiet way I retreat a smidgen, 'til my bottom's pressed straight back into the cot. I feel Frodo's hand clasp and paw at my pocket, though I daren't take my eyes from the Captain. "Which means you must, Master Gardener. I ask once more, where is the Ring of Power?"  
  
"He shall steal it, Sam. You mustn't let him have it!" Set to trembling, I can barely breathe. That I hear the echo of that treacherous Gollum in my master's voice don't help my state in the least. "I will certainly die without it!"  
  
Frodo's questing fingers find the broken chain, and I hear him moan- not a cry of pain, 'tis a gasp of perverted relief that he's found his treasure. I glance up at Faramir, my stomach giving a sick lurch. "Look at 'im," I growl tetchily. "Goin' without the Ring is drivin' 'im mad, besides the grief an' bleedin' taking his strength. 'E can't take much more, it'll kill 'im! Frodo won't keep still unless 'e's got his precious band o' gold. It's plain as the nose on yer face e's already tied to it! You want ta show yer quality, you'll let us go!"  
  
Faramir glowers, gripping his offended hand as though it aches fiercely. He shakes his head. "Understand, I am duty bound to seize anything that might sway Gondor's plight in this war. I have granted you much favor, for it would be well within my rights by law to order you both executed."  
  
I nearly swoon, and repeat numbly, "Kill us? But we've done nothin' wrong 'cept ta cross yer lands."  
  
"Which is why I've taken exception on your behalf." He extends his hand, eyes gleaming like a hungry wolf ready to move in for the kill. "The Ring?" He wants it, nearly as much as Boromir did. That shady circlet is calling to him.  
  
"Saaammm." Frodo's call is wretched, cracked in a wail of despair that don't stop 'til he's run out of air. I turn, see my master's fist clenched around the thing, and whirl on the Captain. Blessed be, please don't let him be motley enough to pry it from Frodo's fingers.  
  
"How can ya do this? Ask such a price ta pay?" I feel tears begin to brim in my eyes, and blink angrily. "You swore ta make 'im well, ya gave yer word! Or don't that mean nothin' where yer from?"  
  
"It does indeed." He rubs his temple, looking at me through narrowed eyes. "We will speak of this later. The Ring will go to Gondor, but Frodo may keep it for now."  
  
I sway, sighing out the breath I'd been holding in. How I'll deal with the Captain's demand, I can't fathom. 'Tis no use to put up a fuss right away, there's my master to see to. I glance over my shoulder, and ain't surprised by Frodo's reaction. He's quailed by fits of shivering, right hand locked tight over his breast, eyes winked shut. They don't even flicker when I whisper his name. Not liking the look of him, I fret over what to do.  
  
"His body cannot sustain its temperature, it is marshaling a defense against the loss of vital fluids," Faramir says, causing me to jump and slew my gaze around. The Captain utters a weary sigh, eyes no longer ready to reave the Ring from Frodo on a blackened whim. "You needn't worry, Sam. I gave a vow to help him, and I shall honor it."  
  
"What's truly wrong with 'im?"  
  
"Frodo was struck in a place along the side and back not well protected. There is no bone to shield what lies inside, and the force of the impact was intensified since the stone fell from a great height."  
  
I touch Frodo's icy hand, drape it with my own fist. "What lies inside?"  
  
"An organ, hollow and sponge-like, shaped like a bean. I do not know its purpose, but the blood when he passes his stream is sign enough that it was injured."  
  
"Can it be fixed? If it's inside where we can't get?" I am close to despair. Surely we've not come this far for Mr. Frodo to meet his death this way.  
  
Faramir nods slowly. "There is a chance." Eyes growing distant, he gestures to the cot. "Lie down beside him, Sam. Lend him the warmth of your body, it will ease the strain he suffers. I shall get extra blankets."  
  
Gingerly, I do as I'm told, though how much it'll benefit my master I can't see, as it's only hip to shoulder I can reach. Sliding my back to his side, I scoot in close. The Captain piles three blankets atop of us, leaving me to wonder how long before I'm boiling under all this trapping. After tucking in the last corner, Faramir bends down, his look so grim I can't tell what dodgy thoughts are shifting in his head. I shrink in fear, and he withdraws a pace.  
  
"Keep him warm, keep him still," he warns, delivering a full leather cask into the hand I've managed to free from its prison. "And soon, you must convince your master to imbibe some liquid. Have him drink much, and often." He raises a mug of glazed brown clay, slipping it beneath our mattress, and moves to a chiseled inset leading to the main cavern. "There is something I must attend to. I shall return shortly."  
  
Finally, he's gone. We're alone, more or less. With only one caper burning, I can look at the ceiling and not stew over the tears coursing down my cheeks. The rock's got little sparkles in it, and they glow like the stars in the night sky. If I close my eyes, and listen to the distant patter of pouring water, I can nearly pretend it's a storm blowing in from the east. Then I hear my master grunt, a sorely lament to yank me right out of thinking such nonsense. You old cabbage, I scold myself, your Gaffer'd take a stick to you if he knew how you was dreaming of the Shire like you hadn't a care, when Mr. Frodo's in such a grave way.  
  
My master stirs roughly, shuddering one minute then going pithlessly limp the next. I gather my wits, and ask, "Is it at all better?"  
  
Frodo hesitates, like he's too tuckered out to answer, then sighs shakily. "I do not like lying like this. I'll never be able to rest properly. I've not slept on my back.not since Rivendell.I never do so."  
  
"Ya 'ave to stay quiet. The Captain said 'tis because yer wound inside must 'ave a chance ta heal."  
  
"I have not the energy nor the will to move, Sam. I just wish.the p- pain in my back might ease. I barely feel the pinch of my shoulder now, even my head has stopped aching, but my back feels like it's been skewered through by a white-hot dagger." I can feel him struggling to take slow and careful breaths, only no valiant effort can halt the quiver in his voice. "I w-want to see my friends and cousins again. Just.our fellowship is truly b-broken, isn't it? Faramir knows I have it.the R-ring. He's going to try and t-take it, Sam! I won't be able to endure it! Those few moments when I placed it in your pocket, I wanted.I felt as though I were dying. The darkness closed in and." He gulps, voice mulled by terrible loss. "The Shire isn't there anymore. It was what I was holding onto, the one t-thing I had left. You were right.about everything. The Ring's taken me, Sam."  
  
The air of worn acceptance in his tone stirs me to protest. "That ain't so! I know the burden's wearin' on you, so bad ya don't want ta go on at times. It's got a toe-hold, aye, but you've still got some say. The Shire is there, Mr. Frodo. As long as one o' us can hold it dear, it'll keep on. I can give it back to ya, if you'll let me, Master. Startin' with Strider."  
  
"Strider," Frodo echoes, sounding gloomy. "I know his name, yet."  
  
"Can ya see 'im?" I ask hopefully.  
  
His arm does a twitch against my side. "No."  
  
"Well, it's been awhile-a sorrowfully, long time by my reckoning- since we've 'ad a song or somebody told a tale. Maybe this rhyme will do the trick. Let me see.  
  
A Ranger at ease with 'erb or blade  
Smote by gallantry that'll never fade  
We met at Bree in an Inn full o' men  
Not the time knowin' 'e was Isildur's kin  
'E guided us true all the way ta Rivendell  
Sent those Riders scatterin' on a confounded yell  
Kind blue eyes paired to an easy smile  
Only 'e could coax Frodo to take concoctions most vile  
Strider we called 'im, thou 'is proper name's Aragorn  
A man who'll be king, our allegiance 'tis sworn.  
  
"Aragorn.Sam, that was wonderful." The change in Frodo is striking, his voice warming like a starved root brought water. "I don't know how you do it. Weave such clever words. I can see him now. Quite clearly."  
  
"Then ya won't be adverse to another?"  
  
"No, please," he prompts breathlessly, "I'd forgotten how much I miss something as simple as a song."  
  
"Remember 'ow Merry an' Pippin joined us on the quest?" The sudden silence from him makes me realize my blunder, and I hum softly. My poor tired head better not quit on me, not when I need it most.  
  
A Took an' a Brandybuck, who'd 'ave thought  
Would come an' knock us flat in Farmer Maggot's crop  
Followin' us far out o' the Shire  
Stickin' close when things turned dire  
We 'ope they've found a safer path  
An' somewhere cozy to 'ave a bath.  
  
Frodo makes a soft noise that sounds as awful lot like a snicker. I turn slightly, pulling the blanket close, and finally feel the unnatural stiffness the pain's twisted him into begin to melt. He ain't being aggravated so, now that the hubbub's died down. "Well, there's more to this story.  
  
A Dwarf an' Elf did join our quest  
Their constant bickerin' sorely put us to the test  
Arguing over whose mark 'twas straighter  
'Til even their friends wanted ta gag them, I'd wager  
But truer bravery ya never did see  
Than Legolas an' Gimli fightin' ta keep us free.  
  
A muffled laugh, mostly snorted through his nose, makes Frodo wince. "'Tis been a long time since I've enjoyed any merriment," he quietly admits. "I never thought out here 'twould be possible. Had I come alone-" He shudders, spooked by the notion. "Why did you do it, Sam? Leave the others? My doom is already laid before me, it shouldn't claim you as well. 'Twas my ill fortune I could not bring myself to leave the Company sooner. Now, we're caught in a ruinous snare, with no way out. It seems hopeless."  
  
"You'll forgive me for sayin', but that account is fit only to heap in the rubbish cart!" I argue. "I came with ya 'cause I promised Gandalf, only that ain't the only reason. I followed so you wouldn't 'ave to bear yer burden all alone. I know ya think you ought, it's just plain wrong ta 'ave a mind like that. You do need 'elp, an' my da' always said when a lad's got trouble sittin' down ta supper, you save an extra spot at the table."  
  
We lie in silence for a spell, then Frodo whispers, "Gandalf.he's gone, isn't he?"  
  
No sense in fibbing. "Yes, sir, I'm sorry ta say. Gandalf's the last one derservin' mention, if you'd be wanting to 'ear it."  
  
"Yes." Though Frodo's sigh is trodden with grief, there's a wistfulness to it that says how much the old wizard meant to him. "I don't wish him to remain lost, fallen out of my mind.into.into shadow."  
  
My master's breathing hard, and a bleakness settles over us like a dark cloud. Ignoring the rumblings of my stomach, I vow, "'E won't, Mr. Frodo. I shall fare 'im a proper tribute.  
  
With twinklin' eyes an' beard o' gray  
A staff that glimmered like a sun-lit ray  
Never a better wizard would ya meet  
Eagerly did we gather for a story at 'is feet  
Bold deeds an' long journey did make our quest  
Told by those o' us who knew 'im best  
Ta be remembered in times o' need  
So 'is words o' wisdom would we heed  
Gandalf the Gray was 'is name  
The Shire without 'im shan't be the same.  
  
I sniff, suddenly feeling teary-eyed again. "By comparison, a nobler effort I'll say, though it still don't do 'im justice."  
  
"It was more than enough, Sam," Frodo expresses after a resolved sigh. "You have given them all back to me. I shall never be able to repay your kindness, but I am thankful for it. So glad that you're here w-with me."  
  
I hear him yawn, then his wrist bumps gently against my hip. His fingers ain't coiled in such a desperate neaf any longer, though I bet the Gaffer's secret recipe that were I to look, I'd glimpse the Ring cupped in his palm. I catch myself in sudden, wide yawn, and scrub my forehead. "You gone on ta sleep, Mr. Frodo. I'll say awake an' keep watch."  
  
"Sleep," he murmurs in a whisper of longing. "Yes, I should very much like to rest awhile."  
  
To Be Continued.  
  
A/N: Special mention of thanks to the following: Shirebound and Budgielover, it was you two who asked for Frodo comfort, so I tried to oblige. I am much better at angst, but the story needed it, and it was a rather unique challenge to write. Hope you liked. And Frodo Baggins of Bag End, I feel your pain. I don't know what illness squicks your health, but as someone who bears the burden of a chronic disease, I know what it can take out of you. Sort of our own Ring to bear. But I salute you for the effort you put into your yahoo site to keep it up and running. No small feat, and I applaud your efforts. I'm having a lot of fun here! 


	10. Chapter Ten

Judgment Reckoning  
  
Chapter Ten  
  
By Kidders  
  
Fandom: Lord Of The Rings, The Two Towers  
  
Spoilers: AU, movie-verse  
  
Note: The bulk of this chapter was written back in July, when I had hoped to post. It was done except for the last two pages or so, but that was when RL decided to go from bad to much, much worse. Though ROTK was a bright spot, and it has prompted me to start writing again, the grief over losing my father just after Christmas is still fresh, and I don't know at what pace I'll be able to continue. I plan to finish the story, no matter how long it takes. Forgive any plot or dialogue similarities, this was written before I saw the extended TT or ROTK. And, unlike previous chapters, POV will switch to Faramir before the break. The transition should be fairly obvious.  
  
POV: Sam  
  
Hadn't meant to nod off, not with all these ruffians about, but black as pitch is what it is when I open my eyes. The air's so heavy, I've got a damp chill down my nape, and the smell.well, I reckon there's nothing lacking with my nose. This stench is every bit as rotten as the bog we trailed through, and it sets me to wondering what secrets the Captain might be hiding.  
  
"Mr. Frodo, can ya smell it? A reek worse than the marshes?"  
  
"Sam? Is it morning already?" Frodo sounds tired and cross, though I can't really blame him. I'd be in a bad state too, if I was carrying his burden. "Sam?!" He sucks in some air, voice stewing in a boil of panic. "I can't see! Not anything! It's gone all wrong!!"  
  
"No!" I blurt, "don't worry none! I can't see neither. We're so deep in Faramir's cave, the sun or moon could blaze a greatin', an' we'd never be the wiser."  
  
"Faramir?" croons Gollum. "What is Faramir? Is it something for good Smeagol to eat?"  
  
Snakes and adders, how'd he get in here? "No, you stinker!" I glare toward the spot where he's snuffling anxiously, not caring a lick if he can see me or not. "Faramir's a captain, a man o' Gondor. 'E catches sight of yer pale face, 'e'll gladly send a bolt or two in between yer beady eyes!"  
  
"Why would he do that? Smeagol does as you askes, shows you safe passage through the marshes. You should be thanking us, very good we are." He smacks his lips, and I shudder, imaging what raw vittle served as his last meal.  
  
"Good for nothin'!" I growl unkindly. "Hope abandoned yer miserable 'ide long ago, left nothin' but a stunted hedgehog, full o' trickery an' cozen plots!"  
  
"O No!" he cackles, "you be the one senseless! Tie the rope until it burns us, leave it on so pain must churn. Rather see us dead, Precious! When sky turns red and will has fled. I takes you to the Gate, then maybe you will see."  
  
"See what?" I'm so mad I could spit. "We've been there already. All that's left to see is yer ugly face!"  
  
Gollum wheezes a bit, shuffles closer. "Your master sleeps, Precious," he mutters. A sinister air lurks in his voice, and I feel my insides clench up. "Quiet, quiet, throat so smooth and soft and bare. One soft squeeze, and he'll have no cares."  
  
Frodo.he's gone and done something wicked to him! "Here, you let 'im go, or I'll 'ave yer hide!"  
  
"We see you, but you not see us," he taunts, beginning to hum some song I can't make out. "That is how it should be, do not doubt us, no, pickled clay stuck in your head! Cannot tell us what to do. The Precious is ours to handle as we likes. No more tricks, no more cheats, gollum! A Baggins, we hates him! Snap his neck we will, yes, yes! Do what Smeagol says, or will be sorry, hobbitses."  
  
"Frodo? Mr. Frodo?!" I scan the cave, wanting to blink away the shadows. It can't end like this, not after we've come so far. I'm obliged to look after him, I promised Gandalf. I'd never forgive myself if .oh, blazes! "You lyin' little weasel! 'Ow'd you get in 'ere past the guards?"  
  
Just then, an ominous rumble shakes the ground, so hard I stagger. Red lights of fire burst into a glow above us, and the smell nearly bowls me over. The ceiling, it's gone and disappeared. Hot air burns up my nose, and I sneeze violently.  
  
"Lead you," Gollum says, "I will lead you from here, just as nice Master asks. Trust good Smeagol." A malicious gleam settles in his bulbous eyes, and he smiles wickedly. "Soon, very soon." Long, bony fingers dig under my master's chin. Frodo gasps, paws frantically at the noose that's snared him. His face reddens to match the sky, blue eyes begging me to make it stop. But I'm too far away, and my feet seem planted in the ground, like they've grown roots. "Bagginses always thieves, stealing what we wantses, leaving us to rot in lonely, black hole. Was going to cut our throat, treacherous nasty hobbit! But we do the killing now."  
  
Sharp teeth chomp together, and his smelly old tongue flicks out like a snake, striking a slobbering line down Frodo's cheek. My master flinches, lets out a low moan as his eyes nearly roll back in his head. "Soft flesh, easy to do, Precious. A twist, he dies, soon we tries, to have the Precious and wear it as our own. You be the miserable ones then!"  
  
"Sa-ammm.too.l-late," wheezes Frodo. His face, all beet red before, is husking into a cloudy gray.  
  
"No, it ain't!" I stammer, tugging on my leg. Move you! "The quest'll wait 'til we're ready. I'll not let this conniving cuss do ya harm, Mr. Frodo, not while I've a notion an' will ta fight." One step, you can do it, toes. Move and slide, that's all I'm asking.  
  
Suddenly, the rascal releases Frodo and begins pawing at my feet. Hands slink up to my knee. His touch makes me feel dirty, a foul and powdered sewer rat. "What if you were to takes it?" he coos. "The Baggins is weak, a milky eanling, yes, it's true. You." He licks his lips. "You see it for yourself. Nice, clever hobbit, no longer a servant will you be, but master of the Precious!"  
  
"What?" I huff, not believing an iota of this rot. "What kind o' talk is that? Yer off yer head, spreadin' such nonsense! Mr. Frodo's lyin' there in the dirt 'cause you nearly throttled 'im. I'll see you dead before I do anything that'll 'urt 'im!"  
  
"If you take it, no more pain for master, eh, Precious?" Gollum scuttles closer, baring a gap-toothed smile. There's no trace of deceit in his eyes for once. He's slippery, I'll grant him that. "Look at the pitiful wretch he has become. If you beget the Precious, claim it as your own, your friend will stay. Stay, stay, right as rain to be the same. Where comes no harm, and sun is warm."  
  
His fingers snake 'round my ankle, and I jerk. "I don't want it, I said!"  
  
Gollum refuses to give up. "Look at that one-face pale as death, cannot eat or sleep. You bring him to ruin, now he is lost. O' so lost, my love. Take it, take it, then he will not suffer. Be free, just like us. Good, eh?"  
  
"Not suffer?" I exclaim. "'E's so mulled by the Ring's influence, my fetchin' it won't see naught except to peeve 'im into another bout of that awful yearnin' 'e gets. Make 'im feebler than 'e already is."  
  
"Sam.m-maybe he's right," Frodo says faintly. He's sat up, and taken to shivering with cold. "I don't think I can go one step farther. Not as I am. If you could carry it awhile, perhaps the worst of the sickness would release me."  
  
I frown. Frodo professing he wants me to have the Ring? There's an odd switch. My master would no more surrender his trinket, than I'd abandon him before we got to where we're going. 'Tis Gollum, I'll wager. He's behind this. "Hey, Stinker! What lies 'ave you been whisperin' in 'is ear?"  
  
The toad puts on one of his innocent looks. "Lies? No lies. We always tells the truth. Good Smeagol, always helps Master."  
  
"Truth?" I sneer. "You wouldn't know the truth if 'twas a platter ta knock ya off yer noggin! Every sputterin' word comes out o' yer mouth is nothin' but deceit. We never should've let ya come with us."  
  
"Sam, leave him alone."  
  
Frodo manages to straighten, but he ain't steady on his feet. He sways, trying to divide his look between me and Gollum. A frown tugs his eyebrows closer, and I know what he's thinking. He's not wanting me to trod on the issue of keeping Smeagol around, only it's too late. I'm putting my foot down. That boggler's nothing but trouble. He'll be trying to nick the Ring all the way to Mordor. "Beggin' yer pardon, Mr. Frodo, but I'll not sit idly by while 'e twists yer head ta suit 'is purpose!"  
  
"You do not understand, Sam." My master sounds too calm, and there's a strange light in his eyes I've not seen before. "I will save him. I'll save the both of us."  
  
"No, you're wrong." Dear me, I can't believe I'm saying this right to Frodo's face, but it's the honest truth! "You don't see 'im as 'e truly is- a villain who can't be trusted. Who'd just as soon throttle us as kiss our feet."  
  
"Sam, dear Sam." The corners of his mouth turn up, barely a smile, not a nice look by far. There's malice in it. "You should have killed me when you had the chance."  
  
A sharp pain stabs through my belly, driving a scream from my lips. I see Sting buried halfway into my gut, and there's a hot rush of blood staining the front of my breeches. Agony tries to drop me to my knees, my hands clutching at the blade, a horrid pressure building in my chest as I gather another breath to shriek. The pain's so terrible, it brings tears to drench my cheeks, and as I cry out once more, I look into Frodo's eyes and see their usual bright blue turn black as coal, the smile on his face as wicked as they come.  
  
"No," I gasp, the strength leaving my legs. I crumple to my knees, and the blade's the only thing keeping me upright. "Why?"  
  
"You get what you deserve, you pathetic, larded scullion," Frodo hisses, ramming the sword to the hilt, sending the blade out through my back.  
  
I think I scream, I try to, but my voice is caught in a strangle of blood welling up in my throat. I can't breathe, there's no air, I'm drowning.taken by the river, so cold and dark and empty, leaving me lost at the bottom where light can't reach. Don't forget me, Mr. Frodo, don't abandon your poor Sam.  
  
"Saaaaammm." My name's cried in a whisper-creak of utterance, dead branches rustling under an icy gale. The wind, that's all it is. But how can I hear it calling me way down here? I blink, seeing a sliver of light above. Then my heart begins to pump, a mighty roar in my ears, and I toss my head back, and suddenly I can breathe. O' sweet Eru! My chest is moving like it should! I gulp and swallow, nothing tasting sweeter than the fresh air in my lungs. Feeling rushes into my arms and legs again, and I sense my fingers got a grip on something, it's soft and warm, and.I gag, sucking air down a dry throat. 'Tis something rotten, it is. Whatever I've gotten a hold on is dead, I've got my hand buried in some maggot hole! Blind panic takes hold, and I scrabble about, desperate to flee.  
  
"Sam.pl-please s-stop!"  
  
Stop? Frodo? Mr. Frodo? No, you can't be dead too! My eyes dash open, and I find myself staring straight down at my master. One of my hands is splayed across his neck, the other's captured his right arm so it can't move. Sprat take me, what am I doing? I yank my fingers away, sitting on my haunches as I stare at Frodo in horror. "Frodo, 'ave I 'urt you? I don't know 'ow I got this way!" I gaze wildly around the cave. "'Twas a bad dream had me in its clutches. Are ye all right now?"  
  
Caught by a shudder, Frodo grunts through chattering teeth, "You want it! You desire the Ring for yourself!" Angry, mistrusting, his gaze flails me like the sot I am.  
  
He'd think that-'course he would. "No, I don't!" I shout. Seeing my master flinch, I talk more quiet, except I'm flustered, and the words nearly run together. "I don't at all. I'd rather you not 'ave ta carry it, but I would never steal it from ya without yer knowin'. That's a promise, Mr. Frodo." With a heavy sigh, I climb away from where I had him straddled, and flop on my side so it's my back he sees. "One I aim ta keep, just like the other."  
  
There's a length of silence, then Frodo draws a deep breath, though with all his aches and pains, only manages by half. "I'm sorry, Sam," he apologizes, voice quivered in remorse. "I seem to be doing this a lot lately, accusing you without proper cause. Forgive me, please.fatigue has rendered me slow and witless."  
  
"Ya needn't worry none about it, Mr. Frodo. I startled ya out o' the first real sleep you've 'ad in ages. 'Tis myself who should be doin' the amendin'."  
  
"You didn't mean any harm. And I really wasn't asleep, not deeply anyway."  
  
I roll over with a worried frown, and eye him carefully. "Yer hurts, are they ranklin' you worse then?"  
  
Frodo's brow furls into a scowl of his own, and in the flickering candlelight, my master's eyes reflect a watery shine. Not the glisten of tears, a gaze dulled by a heavy burden of exhaustion. "I feel no worse than before." He angles his head a mite, and summons a tiny smile. "'Twas the awful rumbling of your stomach which kept me awake much of the night."  
  
"My stomach," I groan, feeling the bite of my empty belly. "Food.why'd ya 'ave ta go an' mention that?" I glance down at the spread of flesh barely stuffed into my breeches, and wince. Stupid, fat hobbit.Gollum's fell insult rings in my ears, the tips flaming crimson as I frown and stare at my middle. I'm awfully glad there's no knife planted in my gullet, and maybe I am fat.but I'm not as fat as Fatty! Besides, I'm a hobbit, we're supposed to be filled out with proper girth.  
  
"I know the pain's bated yer appetite, Mr. Frodo, but what I wouldn't give ta sit down to a nice, hot meal of sausage an' ham, served alongside some freshly baked cakes. No offense to the Elves, but that bread o' theirs ain't even fit for soppin' in ale. I mean, Gollum found it foul, an' 'e's not picky about what goes down 'is craw."  
  
"Yes, 'tis a shame we never got to sample your stew. What a wonderful treat it would have been."  
  
"Aye, a waste indeed. I used up most o' my seasonin' fixin' those conies."  
  
"I wonder." Frodo swallows, rubbing his neck. "I can't help thinking of Smeagol, wondering where he's gotten to."  
  
Faramir strides in, carrying a shiny basin and white cloth. He sets them aside, face set stern. "Of whom do you speak, Master Baggins?"  
  
He advances toward the cot, and my wits scatter. I scramble off the cot, putting myself between so he can't lay scrutiny on Frodo. "One of our companions," I blurt, "that's who 'e is! Smeagol traveled with us down the Great River." Not a lie exactly. Close enough to the truth I'm able to stare down this man of Gondor.  
  
Faramir captures my gaze, looks beyond it to where my master lies. "Companions of old no longer at your side." He pauses, distraction clouding his features. Whatever's bothering him, the Captain shakes it off. "I should like to hear more of that tale," he says, "but not at present. First, I shall redress Frodo's wounds. Then we will speak of your journey over a kingly feast."  
  
I glimpse a shadow of movement, and strain to see better over my shoulder. Frodo is shrinking toward the wall, scooting with his feet. "I would rather not have you touch me," he insists.  
  
"You need to be well tended, Master Baggins."  
  
Flush to the cave's wall, Frodo wrings his hand upon the chain he wears, and cries shrilly, "You plan to take the Ring from me! I heard you! You will take it to your city, thinking it is a weapon you can wield. But the Ring will not save Gondor.it has only the power to destroy!"  
  
Faramir presses closer, and I'm forced to put a crook in my neck just to look into his face. "So you claim. Isildur's Bane has awoken. Yet did you not keep this hidden for your own advantage? Keep this thing a secret?"  
  
"No!" wails Frodo, and I can't help my blink of surprise. Faramir sees it, and Frodo must suspect, for he utters a pained moan and admits, "Yes, I had to keep it safe."  
  
"Why you, instead of Boromir?" he demands. "Or even this Aragorn you praise so highly?"  
  
I don't like his tone-he questioning Frodo like he's some common thief. "No man can carry it! Or resist it's wicked mutterings, that's why!"  
  
"Yet one frail hobbit can?" Faramir scorns.  
  
Indignant, I hold my head high. "So said Gandalf an' Lord Elrond. We left Rivendell with their blessin'. And the Council, too."  
  
He sets his glare to Frodo. "I ask again-you were a friend to Boromir?"  
  
I sneak a look back. My master's got his eyes scrunched shut, fingers white from strain where they clutch the Ring. "Yes," he whispers, "for my p-part."  
  
"It would grieve you then, to learn that he is dead?"  
  
Shock pries Frodo's eyelids up in a hurry, and my mouth hangs open in disbelief. "Dead?" my master exclaims breathlessly. "H-how? When?"  
  
"As one of his companions, I had hoped you would tell me."  
  
Though he don't speak openly of it, suspicion lurks in his gaze. 'Tis clear the Captain thinks we had a part in Boromir's fate. "Now wait just a minute! 'E was alive when last we glimpsed 'im. We all were runnin' from those big brutes Saruman set loose on us-"  
  
"My brother would not flee a battle," Faramir cuts in fiercely. His glower bades me not to speak, but I can't hold my tongue.  
  
"Maybe not. Maybe you'd not believe this, but yer brother tried ta kill Frodo! Tried to take the Ring by force!" My voice rises, as does my anger. "That's what 'appened! Yer brother attacked my master with no cause, other than the madness the Ring drove 'im ta commit."  
  
Faramir's expression freezes, and his body goes very still. I snap my mouth shut, realizing how hard I've pushed. "It would be wise to not speak ill of the dead," he says softly, looking riled enough to cuff my ears. "You may come to regret your provoking words."  
  
"'Tis no falsehood," I argue desperately. "I speak true, you just ain't listenin'! Afore that Ring drove 'im to ruin, Boromir swore an oath ta protect us. 'E was part of our Fellowship. We ate with 'im, and laughed with 'im.yer brother taught us swordplay, an' we fought side by side in Moria. 'Twas Boromir who 'elped save Frodo from the monster guardin' the mine, led us in slayin' the Troll, offered us comfort when Gandalf fell, ta Frodo most o' all-" My voice cracks, and I swipe away a stray tear on my cheek, sinking onto the cot. "Then on Parth Galen, the vile forgery woven by the Ring called to 'im, an' Boromir couldn't resist its treachery."  
  
"Sam, don't.please." Frodo has pulled his legs down, is sitting so he can lean into me. "Faramir, he does speak truly. If you take the Ring, we will have failed. This was my task, to carry the One Ring, appointed to me by Gandalf and the Council. If Sam and I do not resume our journey, his death will have been for nothing! Merry and Pippin.so many have died because of me!"  
  
Guilt trembles his bones in a rough shudder, and I sigh, trying to draw him closer, even while he's pushing me away. "Mr. Frodo, ya can't go blamin' yerself."  
  
Frodo doesn't stop, though his breathing's labored. "I carry the weight of the dead, but it's the weight of the Ring that's killing me. After Bree, on the long journey to see the Elves, we were chased by Black Riders."  
  
"The Nazgul," Faramir murmurs solemnly. Clearly, he's seen the fell beasts and their masters before.  
  
"They attacked us on Weathertop, where the pale king stabbed me." Frodo shivers uncontrollably, and his voice becomes more strained. "What followed.all those long days and nights fleeing to Rivendell.I can still feel it. I thought the wound healed, but the mark does not leave me."  
  
Faramir frowns deeply, his eyes fixed on Frodo. "Mark? You speak of a scar?"  
  
"No," Frodo says faintly, "much worse." His hand leaves the Ring and clutches his shoulder. "This is where the cold point of the Witch-King's sword impaled me, the blade piercing my shoulder, tearing into skin and muscle, ripping away my flesh while the Morgul knife sought out my heart. Do you know how that feels, Faramir? To have an evil poisoning your body, turning your eyes a spectral white that none can look upon without fear or guilt or pity? To feel your limbs grow cold, and it's so hard to breathe, you just wish to give in, to let them take you and become as sick and depraved as they, so you can claim the Ring for yourself. Only one thing remains, the thought that would sway: the Ring would go to Mordor, to serve him, and I would be nothing more than a slave. Neither dead nor alive. Is that what you would desire, Faramir? To lose your mind to Sauron, become his puppet?" Frodo chuckles harshly, sobs rising to rake his voice. "That is the fate the Ring would deliver you to, no other. It will not save your city. And this will all have been in vain! Please, you must let me go! I will have nothing, the Ring will have taken it all! Time grows short-let me go! Please!"  
  
"Can you not 'elm 'im?" queries Sam. "It's such a burden. Ya know why we've come, you've witnessed Frodo's sufferin'. Surely there's some part o' ya still allowin' mercy, capable o' doin' what's right."  
  
I look down. The injured halfling's all but collapsed against his servant, cheeks flushed with fever, the hand that cradles the Ring quaking so hard the chain rattles each time he draws breath. His condition moves me to pity, yet I cannot comply. I steel myself to their miens of betrayal. "Sam, I swore an oath to my father to protect these lands, and I do not take such vows lightly. My allegiance is to my city, my country. By my oath, I am commanded to take you to Denethor, my father and Steward of Gondor. Were I to choose any other course, my life would be forfeit." I shake my head, a sadness warring with my resolve. "I am sorry, my decision must stand. You ask too great a price."  
  
To Be Continued.  
  
FYI: The Ring tried in all its evilness to tempt Sam (hence, the nightmare). It's misbehaving terribly. Bad Ring, very bad . And Samwise is just the first. Frodo's going to have to do some fancy footwork to get himself out of trouble. 


	11. Chapter Eleven

Judgment Reckoning  
  
Chapter Eleven  
  
By Kidders  
  
Fandom: Lord Of The Rings, The Two Towers  
  
Spoilers: AU, movie-verse  
  
Rating: R for this chapter, for implied sexual violence and graphic depiction of bodily functions (may not post on FH, if FBOBE thinks it's too squishy for that site). Hope no one's offended. That's why I upped the rating, to be on the safe side. It's all the Ring's fault, anyway!  
  
Pleas and other tidbits: I haven't yet figured out this whole live journal thing. Of course, I just discovered my cable modem had fried itself into oblivion and I have to get a new one. And I'm recovering from a nasty bout of pneumonia. These summer bugs are an aggressive lot. Ick!!!  
  
FBOBE—email me and let me know how you're doing! Hugs. Maybe I'll get my LJ up and running at some point.  
  
A Elbereth—if you're still reading this, email me too! Kiddersaol.com. Whatever happened to When Storms Break Loose? It's disappeared from ff.net! And was it you penning Snared?? Can't find that one either!  
  
Shirebound—miss you and your comments. Hope to hear from you. Are you going to Comic Con this year? I am planning to (pending enough vacation time from work), maybe we could hook up? I know you've been writing. I am way behind on my reads, must finish JR before I go and check out the other fare. On the positive side, I'll have quite enough reading to take me through summer!  
  
Ariel—hope you're doing okay. I see Fear is still going strong. That should make me a nice diversion sometime in the heat of July, when it's too hot to do anything but read.  
  
Claudia and Lily Baggins—don't know if you guys are still following this, haven't heard from you two in ages. I miss your inputs, but if you've moved on to other ventures, best of luck.  
  
If I've forgotten anyone—Ahoy! Land Ho! I am writing again, and grateful to anyone who takes the time to review. Thanks a bunch!  
  
On with the story—a tad more violent here, the Ring is making everyone tense. POV: Faramir  
  
My proclamation that the journey to Minas Tirith must soon commence is not well met. Not that I expected a cheerier outcome, they both seem agitated in the extreme. The gardener seems to think I've just taken a trencher to his ears, and Frodo releases a choked heave of despair, only to turn his eyes from my sight and curl into a quivering ball at the cot's edge. It might have moved me to pity, had I not first steeled my resolve. I do not understand their brooding worry. The hobbits will be safe in Minas Tirith, freed from the treacherous demands of this quest. They should be grateful for my offer of protection. Yet instead of resting easy at the thought of putting the Ring into more capable—and more numerous—hands, these two continue to fear me. Continue to question my honor, despite my pledges of safe passage. It is lucky they are dealing with me, rather than another. Someone else might not be so lenient.  
  
I approach with measured steps. Noble and unfeeling, I tell myself. Do what you must, and take your leave. "Frodo, I must attend to your afflictions."  
  
For a moment, any sound or motion from the little one ceases, so I think him stifled. A brief hope-bred moment on my part. Foolish of me. Somehow summoning the strength to speak his mind, Frodo whispers, "I do not condone your aid. You are n-not a healer—" He gulps for a deeper breath, to finish loudly, "—and I will not be rendered such!"  
  
'By the likes of you.' The unspoken insult hangs in the air, vexing my patience. I cross my arms, and regard the hobbit sternly. "You would prefer Madril, my second?" I ask bluntly. "Or another of my men to attend you? I can summon them if you wish, Master Baggins."  
  
Just as I expect, the thought of a stranger tending his needs does not appeal. The halfling's cheeks, already flushed, flame redder, and blue eyes dart frantically with embarrassment and also fear. "I will not take it, Frodo," I assure him. "Not whilst you lie weak and vulnerable."  
  
Sam emits a muffled snit, which I ignore. I count my blessings the gardener has held his tongue this long. Gently coaxing Frodo to sit up, I capture a nearby blanket and drape it across his hips. He is quite weary: languishment twitches in his spent muscles, and his chin almost immediately droops, sinking lower and lower until demand for breath drags it up once more.  
  
I place my hand on his shoulder, and Frodo jerks, heavy-lidded eyes peering suspiciously while I probe the bones at the site of his injury, finding they have held quite well in mending. "Does the arm pain you still?" I inquire.  
  
Frodo looks startled, his free hand creeping to the Ring before he can stop it. "No," he mutters, avoiding my gaze. "It throbs if I move too much, otherwise 'tis bearable."  
  
"And your head?" I touch his brow; a heat burns there, not yet grievous. "Are you able to see straight and true?"  
  
The look the hobbit gives me is strange, his frown suggesting I'd just posed him a riddle. "I see what I need to," he says finally. "More than enough."  
  
Clearly meant as a baited snare, I refuse the challenge. Provoking the ill halfling would serve no purpose, given his current state. "What about your back, where the rock dealt its blow? Has the crimson stain been flushed from your stream?"  
  
Frodo's eyes slide away, cast down to study the cave floor. "Not completely," he admits in a squeaky rush. "I slept, and did not drink as you instructed."  
  
Sam shields his master in a protective embrace. "It's the best sleep 'e's had in ages. Would've been a lot more, too, if I 'ad'nt gone and woken ya up."  
  
"Frodo, it is very important to imbibe as much liquid as you are able." I lift the skirted edge of chain mail, holding it away from his side. The hobbit sheets the blanket about his waist, seeming to hold his breath when I touch the injury. In the cave's dimness, the mark is scored blacker; I can tell vital fluids pool beneath the skin, drawing it taut and procuring a rackish heat which pulses beneath my hand like an angry howlet.  
  
Frodo utters a soft, mewling noise, and gnashes his teeth. "The room is spinning," he laments. "I feel quite ill."  
  
As his face is turning a sickly shade of green, I quickly push his head down into Sam's lap. Securing his feet atop the mattress, I instruct, "Take deep breaths, Frodo. This episode will pass soon." Supporting his head a bit higher, I raise the cask of water to his lips. "Drink."  
  
Hesitation firms his mouth, no doubt prompted by the unpleasant recall of vomiting, but his body's need is so great, he suddenly begins taking small sips, each swallow greedier than the last. Soon, he has drained half the flask, and I draw it from his lips, hoping it will stay in his stomach.  
  
"Thank you," Frodo sighs, "it tasted quite good."  
  
I readjust the mithril, folding the blanket up to his shoulders and readying the bolster. "Now back to business—elevate your feet and rest easy."  
  
"Please," he sconces, "I cannot bear the pressure on my back. Is there not some other position where I'd not be confined so?"  
  
"How fares your sight? Has the dizziness abated?"  
  
"Yes," Frodo responds, a little too readily I think. "Now that I am reclining, my vision no longer falters." He blinks at me, all the while sliding lower into Sam's lap.  
  
I raise an eyebrow. "Your eyes may know no bound, but your strength lags far behind, Master Baggins. You must rest, and eat if you're able."  
  
Sam perks up at the mention of food. "Eat? Not ta be taken as rude or anything, 'tis just that I'm famished. You wouldn't 'appen to 'ave any roast chicken tucked away in yer supplies, would ya?"  
  
I glance at Frodo—the little one's eyes are now closed, but there's a tug of a smile on his lips. "My cave may not hold the grandeur of the Hall of Kings, Master Gamgee, but we are not uncivilized here in Ithlien."  
  
"As long as it tastes better than that Elvish bread, I'll be grateful, sir."  
  
The injured hobbit wrinkles his nose at this, opening slightly glazed eyes. "I'm sorry, I am really not very hungry, Sam. You go ahead." Even as the words are spoken, Frodo's stomach rumbles loudly. Yet the hobbit barely reacts. Convincing him to eat may be more of a task that I'd first anticipated. Though he did drink, and it stayed down where it belonged.  
  
"Yes," I encourage, pointedly looking at the gardener. "Our resources are not endless. However, I would be honored to have you and your master share in our evening staple."  
  
Sam's smile is tentative, a vast improvement over the glower. I believe I have discovered his soft spot. "What would we be 'avin', Captain?"  
  
"Sam!" Frodo scolds. Though it is an effort, he focuses on his servant. "You are getting as bad as Pippin in such enthusiasm."  
  
"Well, 'e's offerin', so I'm askin'!" The smile fades, and Samwise gently brushes the slick of curls clinging to his master's brow. "'Sides, it ain't often I get to taste somethin' not cooked by my own hand."  
  
"Well," I expunge, "supper here in the Window of the West usually consists of bread crusts with salted pork, some dried apples and blueberries, a delightful red cheese, with ample yellow wine to warm you from head to toe. Does that live up to your expectation, Master Gamgee?"  
  
"Aye, it does."  
  
When they've eaten their fill—or Sam has, while Frodo's managed to take several bites and keep them down—I put aside the platters and settle cross-legged onto the ground not far from the cot. The ill halfling is propped as comfortably as possible against his servant's pack, sitting ably enough in a half-recline. Blue eyes watch me, tense and pleached to avoid any pitfalls. I hand the hobbit a small goblet of water, and purse my lips.  
  
"Tell me of your journey, Frodo Baggins. Of what drove you to Ithlien."  
  
As expected, Frodo's gaze suddenly grows evasive, and he seems to draw into himself. Fingering the Ring while barely keeping hold of his drink, he sighs, speaking softly. "Much is already known to you." The short declaration is not to my satisfaction, and he knows it. "We are hobbits of the Shire," he says woodenly. "Traveled far, from the North and West. First by way of Bree, then Rivendell. We set out with seven companions..." His voice roughens. "One we lost in Moria..."  
  
"Mithrandir," I murmur.  
  
Frodo turns his face aside, hand abandoning the Ring and shaking so badly I can hear the liquid inside the goblet sloshing alarmingly. Sam reaches out and closes his fingers over those of his master, calming the movement before its outcome would slide to disaster. "After the avalanche, I chose to go through the mines, to keep us from Saruman's sight. I thought it the safer path." Sorrow lines Frodo's face when he looks back, a heavy grief still fresh in its toll. "I was wrong." He takes a sharp breath, dark lashes skimming over bruised lids. "Two of the others were my kin. A dwarf there was also, and an elf. And two men—Aragorn, son of Arathorn, and Boromir of Gondor."  
  
His fist clenches and opens, trembling fingers releasing the goblet to Sam before reaching for his shoulder. "We left them at Parth Galen, above Rauros...all were still alive." Frodo's gaze, worn and dejected, confixes to mine. "I left them, thinking the Enemy would pursue me, so they might be spared. If Boromir really is dead, then all of our friends might have perished..." His throat closes around a sob, and he will no longer meet my eyes. The gardener spears me with his own stricken look, and I feel an irrational surge of anger.  
  
"Don't presume, Frodo." I drain the last swig of spirits from my mug. "Any fault does not lie with you or your servant. Do you recall what my brother carried?"  
  
Frodo's eyes cloud, and he nods. "He bore a horn, polished white and bound with silver."  
  
"It washed ashore upon the river bank, miles downstream, cloven in two." Now it is I who can barely speak. Anguish claws at my voice. "Early, when fog laid siege to the shores of Osgiliath, I thought I heard a blow from Boromir's horn." I breathe hard, sorrow clinging around my neck like the choke of a collar. I should have been the one to travel to Rivendell. Father should have sent me. "That night, I saw my brother as if in a dream, set to rest in a strange vessel. His face was drained to the pale gray of death, and my heart was wrenched in grief at the sight. Yet the craft he rode displayed great beauty, carved with skill and grace."  
  
"It was made by the Elves," Sam professes quietly. "That's where we sailed from—the woods o' Lorien."  
  
I feel my brow pucker, sadness trumped by surprise. "You were granted refuge in the Hidden Land?" My determination wanes at the sheer range of their travels. "Shared an audience with the Lady in White, whose wisdom is said to surpass the lore of all mortal men?" Sam nods, then sheepishly inspects the tips of his fingers rather than look me in the eye. "All this, after dodging pursuit by the Nazgul, and escaping the curse of the Dead Marshes." I snort, though my demeanor quickly turns sober. "Fortune must indeed favor your steps."  
  
"No longer," Frodo exhales softly. Eating has further exhausted him; his eyelids droop in spite of effort to the contrary. "Our path is riddled with unseen peril. A savage blow always raised, always waiting..." He draws the blanket close to his chin. "Hungry shadows ready to consume and know the secrets we bear." Eyes now shut, the hobbit murmurs, "We went through the mines...Gandalf..."  
  
"Rest, Frodo," I urge. "Sleep, and regain your strength."  
  
Slowly, the tenseness leaves his fist and brow, his breathing becoming deep and even. I dare not look to Sam, lest my duty be compromised even more than it already is. We will soon depart, for there is no other choice. At least Frodo has found some measure of peace. For now.  
  
A horrible sense of uneasiness snaps me from sleep, and I grimace at the hot lances of pain tearing through the palm of my hand. Inhaling deeply, the musky stench of foul excrement hits my nose, reminding me our usual supply of sweet flag had been exhausted a few days earlier. The odor and pain jolt me fully awake, and I realize I am not where I normally would be. Instead of sharing a battle plan with Madril, I had retreated deeper into our cave, wishing for a quiet place to get my thoughts in order. This far back, one usually ventures not unless duty or daily ritual requires it. I came, in spite of the unpleasantness--in fact because of it. Unfortunately, sound carries a great distance in the grottoes, alerting me to another fact: I am not alone here.  
  
The din of raised voices reaches me, from somewhere along the path to our tunneled privy. I stand and venture closer, recognizing the speakers as members of my company. One of the lower ranks, I'd judge. They are arguing brazenly, disagreement and too much drink slurring their words. I strain my ears, trying to pick up what plots, if any, they are concocting in my absence. Why they would choose such a meeting place, I cannot construe. The smell is already worsening my mood. A few more steps, and I can hear them clearly.  
  
"Well, little cheat," exclaims one, "how's it feel ta venture down 'ere alone without yer knave hoverin' ta wipe yer bottom?" The derision is such I have no trouble identifying the culprit. Not one of the Dunedain, rather part of a lowly, commoner crowd in service to my father.  
  
"Yeah, sprat little strumpet, where is it? We know you're holdin' on to some riches. Greatly enough the Captain won't speak o' the details."  
  
"I don't know what you mean!" Frodo's voice is unmistakable, verging on panic. "I came down here to..." He stumbles over saying his reason aloud; no matter, as all of us know what would force the hobbit into this section of the tunnel. I silently curse his stupidly, stubborn pride. "I have no quarrel with any of you," Frodo insists, obviously gathering his courage. "I would ask that you let me pass unhindered."  
  
"We don't take orders from a rump-fed ouph the likes o' you. Faramir may wring at the pitiful lume of yer eyes and hinge on the stories ya weave. Bein' the Steward's son affords 'im certain privileges, but we ain't so forgivin'."  
  
This last stinks of insult, not only to Frodo but my own bloodline as well. Things have gone to far, I think. There's a sharp cry, cut sputteringly short. I lunge forward, only to have my vision desert me. Tripping, I go down on one knee.  
  
"You'd better squeal, runt." Murdan, I realize. A man without honor. "We know you have it. Tell us, and we won't be spillin' yer blood tonight." He chuckles, a chilling sound even to my ears. "You like the filth o' this sinkin' bench-hole, halfling?"  
  
"No, don't!" Frodo's voice skips up a full gamut, nearly a screech.  
  
I crawl from the outcropping of rock, manage to stand. My hand feels broken, and tears of pain cloud my sight. Blinking angrily, the heat from my thumb rushes to my head, bringing the scene into sharp focus. I see why the hobbit is so frightened. Murdan, the lout, has stripped the sling from Frodo's arm so the limb hangs limply, a useless weight against the little one's ribs. He's got the other arm wrenched halfway up the hobbit's spine. Pain has driven Frodo to hunch closer to the ground, and from this angle, I see the nightmare for what it is.  
  
The Mithril shirt has ridden up past the hobbit's waist, his backside completely bare under Murdan's trousered leg. Trembling violently as the man's hand roughly paws his inner thigh, Frodo seems frozen and afraid to move. If he moves, the unthinkable happens. I've known others with such foul appetites, notably Orcs and a handful of other ruffians, but the sight of it turns my stomach. I can't see the hobbit's face, but his panicky breaths sound extortedly faint.  
  
"Give us yer bit o' treasure, runt," Murdan threatens, "or I'll pull yer insides out right through that hole o' yours."  
  
I sway, fighting the stinging heat which scrambles my thoughts. "Stay!" I yell harshly, just as a feathered bolt buries itself in Murdan's belly. The soldier cannot draw breath to scream as blood spurts from the wound, but Frodo does. The hobbit emits a curdling shriek when the heavy weight falls across his back and pushes him into the ground.  
  
Damrod emerges from the shadows, bow held at ready, sending the others scurrying in retreat. Frodo has managed to extricate himself from the bloody prison of dead weight, but when I slowly approach, the hobbit scuttles on hands and knees, crying, "Stay away! Stay away!"  
  
Beyond reason and pain, mindless terror is what pushes the halfling to seek refuge deeper into the tunnel. I stoop when the walls grow narrower, calling, "Frodo, stop! Listen to me...it is Faramir. The others are gone, the danger has past."  
  
He will not be placated, however. Crying softly, the hobbit squeezes himself into a pocket of sheltered stone too small for a man to reach, scrabbling onto his back, pushing frantically with his feet to jam himself tighter against the wall. I see a glimpse of curling, dark hair before he yanks his knees up his chin, eyes glistening like gray flint stones as he stares at me.  
  
"It's gone," he sobs fitfully, "they took it!" He makes clawing gestures at his throat and chest, but harrowed as he is, I doubt he can feel anything right now.  
  
Bent nearly double, I can go no farther. The pain in my hand pulses, and Frodo's sobs grow distant in my ears. Faramir...My name is hissed softly, spreading warmth in my belly, loosening my muscles. I squeeze my thumb, and my eyes focus so quickly a lance of agony spears through my head. I swallow hard, an icy chill dousing the heat in my veins. The Ring. It is not lost. It is here, with us in the near-darkness.  
  
Lifting my lantern, I stare at it in surprise. I must have picked it up when I stood, but I have no memory of holding it. The light is muted, flame scattered through ivory panes, protected from dousing and giving me a torch when none other dare venture. I can see Frodo now, several strides ahead. As the light hits his bare legs, his face crumples into confusion and pain, and he blinks at me, staring first at his nakedness, then at the Ring nestled in his palm.  
  
"F-Fara-mir..." Frodo's teeth start to chatter, and he shivers violently. "I can't...c-can't move."  
  
"Don't worry, Frodo. I shall have Darmod fetch a rope, so we can pull you out."  
  
"No..." There is a small rumble, and he looks at me with fear again growing in his eyes. "No!!" He slips backward, then disappears from view entirely. I hear the echo of his scream, cut short in a muffled grunt.  
  
I scramble a few steps deeper, calling out, "Frodo? Frodo, can you hear me?!" The drop is not as deep as it might have been. In tunneling out and sealing this end of the cave, the distance to the lower chamber was made to be only several feet. "Frodo?"  
  
"I'm...I'm here," a faint voice calls to me. "I am f-fine."  
  
"Follow the sound of the water, Frodo. It will lead you to the large pool formed at the base of the falls. Can you swim?"  
  
There is a length of long silence before he answers dully, "I can."  
  
"I will meet you at the edge of the pool. Hasten your steps."  
  
I reach the mouth of the cave, racing through a startled contingent of my men as I take the stairs as fast as I dare. Even so, the halfling is there before me. I stop short at the water's edge, the night sky above slowly shedding its curtain of darkness to allow the first new rays of another dawn to illuminate my path.  
  
Frodo is on his knees in the pool, eddies of disturbance lapping near his waist. His chest is bare, save for the Ring. It is quiet, yet it still takes effort for me to pry my eyes from the hypnotic sway of gold dangling on that chain. "Frodo, are you injured?" I query.  
  
The halfling slowly raises his chin, expression scored in weary betrayal. "If you inquire regarding my health, then no, I have not been harmed." The last word catches on a grunt of fear and distaste. "They laid their hands on me and mocked, but that is all. I was dealt humiliation, not injury."  
  
"Not even your shoulder?" I ask pointedly.  
  
Frodo crosses his right arm over his left, hugging his chest in a shudder. Lingering moonlight striking the water reflects a glistening shine across the hunched form, a glow I realize comes not from the Mithril, but the hobbit's pale-silver skin. A glint at my feet reveals the discarded garment, and even from where I stand its stench is quite repulsive. Accusing eyes lie in wait as I glance up, boring into me.  
  
"I could h-have put I-it on," Frodo hisses, malice contorting his face, the fist from his good arm drawing the chain taut about his neck. "I could have dis-appeared, left you to rot in your f-filthy cave...summoned th- them and allowed y-you to suffer their wrath! Yet I did n-not—" His voice suddenly falters, a rapid blink clearing the stormy mist from his eyes. "I could not a-abandon Sam!" He bends low, nose almost to the water, the knotted bone of his spine seemingly too sharp to stay confined beneath its thin coat of skin. I catch a glimpse of mottled-black bruising along his flank, deep and ruinous. "Not here. Not after he remained by m- my side through the daunts of our q-quest. The road... it stretches on, unending... We've endured much, and I could not l-leave him, you s-see." He drops the Ring, sagging forward.  
  
The thin shoulders begin to shake, a sobbing breath escaping from quivering lips. "But I fear...I cannot go on much longer," he laments, forlorn. "The Ring calls to me. I can no longer banish its whisperings. Day and night, the voice grows so loud, I cease to hear the appliance of my own thoughts. I am sinking, Faramir. Being bated into a wretch no better than—"  
  
A loud splash from behind gives Frodo pause. I step closer, unease driving my breaths swift and light. Frodo's head snaps up, hand flying to his neck to seize the Ring. Blue eyes blaze fearfully wide, stricken with panic. "NO!" he cries, both warning and plea gorged shrill. Before I can move, the halfling is yanked from sight, drawn in plundering attack beneath the pool's surface.  
  
I sprint into the shallows, cursing the hindrance of my cheverel, knowing I have not the time to remove my boots. Footfalls crash in the scrub brush along the steep bank, sending me whirling in waist-deep water. The gardener is perched on a ledge, looking down over the pool, wide eyes taking in the rippling water, now darkly opaque in its disturbance. "Mr. Frodo!" he worries. "Where's Mr. Frodo?"  
  
"Sound the alarm, Sam! Get others of my company down here!" I order. He hesitates, and I growl, "Do not delay! Go now!"  
  
He scurries back up the bank, giving me time for one deep breath before I plunge under the surface, kicking fiercely. Water soaks into leather, lending speed to my descent. Blue turns to black. My air dwindles, tiny bubbles drifting over my head, and still I do not glimpse him. My chest burns, and I search the water, swirling back and forth, trying to see into the murky depths where the falls churn a giant, dark sinkhole. If Frodo has been drawn there, he is beyond my aid.  
  
The dark and cold scrape at my limbs, stealing my warmth, dragging me deeper. Where is Frodo? I must find him! Quickly...time is short. Boromir's face wavers into sight, and I recoil, the last bit of air in my lungs leaving my mouth in a surprised gurgle. My brother waits...yet not my father. No compassion granted even in my death. My air has run out. I must breathe...or die. I am sorry, Samwise. Sorry I could not save him for you...  
  
A swatch of dark billows in the water at the edge of my sight, where the rising sun can reach. I grab a fistful of curls and kick upward. The weight is heavy, and my sight grows dim. But one last surge of effort clears my head from the water, and I gasp hungrily, replenishing my lungs with great swallows of air. Frodo hangs limply from my arm, and another... A pale creature, twisted and contorted, he breathes heavy but quickly turns with teeth bared. I do not pause, my free hand catches it solidly across the side of its nearly-bald head, and it collapses in the stone at my feet. I climb up, giving Frodo a fierce shake, turning him up over my shoulder. I hear him gag, and then comes cough after cough, his body expelling any water drawn in. When the spasms cease, I cradle him to my chest. Naked and shivering, he clings to me, eyes nearly rolled back in his head. He coughs and sputters again, lids fluttering weakly, water and drool dribbling from his mouth. Frodo convulses, gasping out one word: "Osgiliath."  
  
The Ring glows bright on his breastbone, it is all I can do to not tear it from his possession. Pained blue eyes open and struggle to focus. I feel as if I am drowning all over again. Our city...the last stronghold to protect Minas Tirith...what was said?? I shake him, harder this time, and his eyes open wide. "What did you say, Frodo? About the city upon the river, garrison to my father's people?"  
  
Every breath Frodo takes leaves his lungs in a rattle. He finds strength to answer, and the message is chilling.  
  
"Osgiliath...it burns."  
  
To Be Continued...  
  
A/N: Sorry, FBOBE. This wasn't exactly what you wanted, I know. Just had to throw some smarm in there. I might have altered a few things to suit my purpose. Remember, it is AU. 


End file.
